


Bees in the Honeysuckle

by seasalticecream32



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, One sided Jim Moriarty/Molly Hooper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasalticecream32/pseuds/seasalticecream32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Molly, you contrary girl."</p>
<p>A Sherlolly adaptation of Stephen Crane's "Maggie: A Girl from the Streets."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fight before Molly

Chapter One: A Fight before Molly

The child wailed on her hip, his hoarse cries drowning out the mutterings of the passers-by. She’d heard the whispers before. Always well-dressed ladies and businessmen exchanged hard glances and mouthed about teenage pregnancy behind their manicured hands. The Wal-Mart bag cutting into her forearm only furthered their assumption that she’s an unkempt beggar girl. When she rounded the corner and to find John with fists bloodied and face red, she broke into a run. The whispers grew into loud disapproval when she put Toby down, grocery bag spilling off her arm. She placed a gentle hand against John’s shoulder, steering him away from the bold stares of the crowd.

Toby’s bowed legs waddled towards her, pudgy fingers outstretched as she stepped between the panting boys. John glared at her, growling at her through swollen lips. She was not surprised to see more cuts on his face from his brawl. The other boy was worse off and stumbling away before Molly could get a good look at him. The only detail she picked up was dingy red hair topping a tall, lanky frame. She waited until he rounded the corner of the complex before she gathered up Toby and her groceries again, avoiding the scrutinizing stares of the thinning onlookers. It’s not like any of them had stepped in to break up the fight.

“John, you can’t keep fighting like this. You know Momma will have your hide.” John just glared at her through a blacked eye, his ever present scowl disrupted by the blood smeared over his face. 

“Who cares what Momma’ll do? It’s not like she’d’ve done anything different.” 

Molly turned a bit of her skirt to the underside, pressing the cotton against his fist, keeping the stains hidden. Her older brother winced, but didn’t pull away.

“Why are you always fighting John? How are you always angry?”

He didn’t respond, just sulked.

“John! What do you want? Do you want to end up in the hospital again? Do you want Momma to knock you around?”

“You won’t tell her will you?”

“You’ll be lucky if that boy’s mother doesn’t come back and tell on you herself. Besides, you’re pretty beat up, John. She’ll know.” Molly had just managed to get most of the blood wiped up, careful not to push the wounds too badly lest she break them open again, when she heard another young voice calling out.

She turned to face the newcomer and saw dark curls and bright blue eyes staring at her incredulously.

“Mikey said he got beat up by a boy. You’re a girl.”

Molly held fast to Toby’s hand and stared up at the boy. He had to be closer to John’s age than the other one had been. His cheeks turned red under her continued scrutiny. What was she supposed to say? “Well, yes, I am a girl. Thank you for noticing.” She blushed, looking away from the boy’s intense stare. She caught a slow smile spreading on his lips from the corner of her eye.

“You keep your eyes off my sister like that! She hasn’t done nothing to your good for nothing brother.” John stepped forward, needlessly valiant.

“He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” 

“You don’t know anything, asshat!” John lunged forward, fists already flying. The boy didn’t say anything, just moved out of John’s way.

Molly didn’t see the foot stick out in time to warn her brother before he fell face first on the sidewalk, busting open every cut she’d just cleaned. With his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes narrowed, she almost thought the boy was bored. John got up again, body braced to charge, when they heard a clear harrumph across the sidewalk. A man observed them from his position on the street, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his briefcase.

Daddy was home early. Molly felt her stomach sink, even as she experienced a brief moment of relief. Dad would stop the fight, but he couldn’t stop the punishment.  
Or wouldn’t. That was another matter entirely.

The dark haired boy stared back for a second at the adult, brows knit together as he glanced between daddy and them. No guilt or anger passed between them, but he still kicked a rock before he turned around to go home.

“John, what on earth did you think you were doing?”

“His brother said mom was a drunk.”

“Your mom is a drunk, boy.” Toby was still squalling. Once he noticed their father he stretched his arms out, grabbing at the air with tiny fingers. 

“Mikey don’t know that.”

“The correct grammar is doesn’t. Mikey doesn’t know that.” Dad looked back down at John and Molly could see the pity there.

“Why were you out here anyway? It’s six o’clock. You got off the bus hours ago.” He walked towards the gate, long strides difficult for his kids to keep up with.

“Mom said she needed groceries.” 

Her dad’s jaw twitched, but he turned his gaze ahead as he entered the apartment code. He mumbled under his breath. Molly caught the words ‘kids’ and ‘alone’ and ‘all evening,’ though whatever he said between was blurred out by his huffs and grunts. His briefcase clunked on the pavement while he fumbled his keys out of his pocket.

“How was school today?”

Neither of the children answered, and he didn’t push the issue. They entered their stuffy building and crammed into the hallway, winding up two flights of stairs before reaching their floor. A stifling silence fell among the group as they approached the door, gleaming numbers and white paint hiding a perfectly abnormal home. Already they could hear the loud thumps of their mother’s footsteps across the floor, her voice grinding out an old Bon Jovi song at the top of her lungs. They heard a thump, and their mother’s singing was interrupted by a string of curses. John shrunk away from the doorway. Molly refrained from stretching out a hand to comfort him, knowing that the action would only be worse for the both of them.

God in heaven, Molly wished John could keep from fighting.

The radio crowed in the kitchen, skipping and spluttering out the lyrics to Living on a Prayer. Molly could see several stacks of magazines, each one with bits cut out into strips, scattered around the living room floor. They were new and glossy, some with women smiling brightly from their covers and others opened to the advertisements. Each one had to have cost at least three dollars.

“What the hell possessed you to by a dozen copies of People magazine?” 

Molly flinched at the slam of the door behind them. Toby clamored at her calves, pulling at her skirt to sit on her hips again.

“Well, I needed to make a collage, dear. Emilie says she wants a pop culture print.” Nellie splayed out on the kitchen floor, a nearly-empty glass twirling between her fingers.  
“I poured out your bottles yesterday. How many did you go and get?”

“Just a couple, darling. Don’t worry, I paid the rent.” Molly felt her face flush as her mother took another long sip, cool blue eyes challenging anyone to take it from her. The straw made broken slurping sounds as she fished for the last bit at the bottom.

“Oh, rent, yes. What about groceries? What about dinner three days from now? What about the lights? There’s more than rent, Nellie!” 

“Well, I think we can handle a few dark nights, can’t we dears?” 

Molly didn’t have to see John’s expression as her mother’s gaze shifted over to her children. The sneer across the woman’s painted lips was enough to strike fear into anyone. The girl didn’t dare move as her mother struggled to her feet. She did not help her mother up, or quiet Toby’s constant crying, or step forward to cover John. She dared not make a sound. Momma stomped across the kitchen tile, hands already clenched into fists until she reached her oldest.

“Been getting into fights again, Johnny-brat?”

Molly smelled the bloom of alcohol when she was brushed aside. Protests bubbled in her chest and fought against her lips, leaving a sickness curling in her stomach. She wondered what Momma would do if John told her why he’d punched Mikey? Would she deny it or call him a fool? Probably both. Arguing would only prolong the confrontation.  
She pleaded, eyes closed, mouth silent, for John to just nod and take his punishment.

He never did. 

“I said, been getting into fights again?” The oldest boy’s face reddened as his mother’s grip tightened around his arm, her eyes level with his. 

“Yes.” The swollen cut on his lip split at the word, blood seeping from the split. “Mikey said—”

“I’ll teach you about getting in trouble, Johnny-brat.” She jerked on John’s arm, pulling him towards the kitchen sink still full of dishes. Without a moment’s pause she swiped her arm across the towering mess, knocking the offending dishware to the floor.

Molly flinched as plates and bowls and silverware crashed against the tile. She counted at least three broken plates.

“What are you doing, Momma?”

“I’m washing off your cuts boy. And don’t expect no gentle treatment. If you can take a beating you can take my beating. Now get under here.” The water steamed onto greasy pots and crusted skillets. 

“I won’t.” He attempts pulled away from her, stuck in the iron grip of his mother’s authority. Molly knew he could have escaped her, but that would only make it worse.

“I said get under the water!” She hollered over the warbling music. Someone from next door knocked on the wall. Of course, Molly thought, the neighbors wanted them to get beat quietly. 

“My face isn’t getting under that water,” he hissed.

John jumped when Momma’s hand snapped up, sharp nails digging into his cheeks. Tears wet his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. Despite his twisted lips and bleeding face, he held his ground. His glare looked ridiculous against his squashed face. 

“I don’t rightly care what you think is going to happen, boy. You fight, you get punished. Now under you go.” She jerked his head under the water before he had time to retaliate. The water spread shiny pink across his cheeks, her other hand grabbing for soap that she poured straight onto his cut. Blue soap leaked into his mouth, sending the poor boy sputtering.

Molly had to cover her eyes when she saw her mother grab the rag. She could see the harsh drag of the rough, thin dishcloth over his bruises and cuts, even with her eyes firmly closed. John’s cry cut across the room, followed by a resounding thud. She tried to still her racing heart. John was always fighting. Always fighting. Even fighting back when it was so much better just to wait until it was done.

“You think you can push me?” Momma screamed, shaking the stained cloth at her son as if she brandished a weapon. “You think you can abuse your momma this way? All that raising I did you, and you think you c’n put your hands on a woman!”

“Stop washing the boy’s face now, Nel. We have to talk about these purchases you made. We can’t take none of this junk back now, can we?” Daddy gestured around at the ruined magazines, the glossy women’s smiles glaring back at them. “Now we’re going to starve if you don’t figure something out. I just got off the phone with the bank, you hear me? We don’t have but twelve bucks in there now, and that’s not going to cover the water bill. What are we going to do for the rest of the month, Nel?”

Momma ignored him, clamoring back up to yank John’s face back to the water. This time he didn’t bother to struggle. Occasionally he would let loose a yelp of pain, but he didn’t once lift his hands again.

“Why are you always messing with the damned kid, Nel? If you’d leave him alone every now and again, maybe he wouldn’t need punishing.” Daddy was still untying his tie and swapping out his shirt.

Finally, Momma stopped scrubbing at John’s face. He skulked back to their room.

Toby fell silent, his head heavy on her shoulder. He was the only one she’d ever met who could sleep through hell like this. She took him back to their room as the disagreement escalated. John was half out the window, face still twisted in pain. He was going to Mary’s, like always. 

“Have her put the music box on the windowsill for me, will you? I’d like to hear it.”

John just nodded and finished climbing through.

She’d just laid Toby in his crib when she heard the heavy thumping of footsteps down the hall. Their parents’ voices grew louder as they chased each other.

“You can’t keep spending money on these fantasies of yours, Nel! You aren’t no artist and we aren’t living off these collages of yours!” 

“You don’t support nothing I do, Stephan. Nothing! You yell at me about John and about newspapers and art! What am I supposed to do? You’re always yelling at me.” 

“This week it’s collages, last week it was caricatures. What’s next? You going to start portraits? You aren’t no Michelangelo. You’re spending more on this garbage than you’re paid for it.”

“They’re my supplies. I can make dozens of… of pictures with the right inspiration.”

“This,” He grabbed the cup from her hand and slammed it down onto the table, “is not inspiration. It’s poison, Nel.”

“You don’t think I do anything right do you?” Nellie’s voice grew weepy, eliciting an exasperated groan from her husband.

Molly listened at the door, wishing simultaneously that she could curl herself into a ball and never hear them again, and that she wouldn’t miss anything they said. She wondered if today was the day one of them would declared the other too much, and the slam at the door would be the final one.

A knock, drowned out by all their screams and all the space between her and the living room, sounded sharply from their front door. If she hadn’t have been straining her ears to hear her parents or Toby’s soft snores, she’d have never caught it. Someone had come to the door and knocked on it. This had never happened before. Should she answer? Who was on the other side? Were they going to tell the couple to shut up? Were they going to ask about the children? Who would brave all the noise inside?

“You don’t do nothing, Nel, except spend our money and drink liquor until you’re stupid.” There was a bang, and Bon Jovi’s singing started to skip. 

Momma sobbed from the forbidden bedroom, as she and John called it. Her father kicked and tossed magazines, muttering curses under his breath as Momma’s wailing grew louder. Toby wouldn’t be asleep for long if they kept this up.

Molly slid along the walls of the hallway, creeping towards the front door with as much stealth as she could muster. Whoever knocked was probably gone by now, but some part of her hoped it was someone there to demand a change. She had to check.

She didn’t pause to clean the clutter or explain to her pacing father what she was doing. She just turned the knob as quiet as she could and pulled the door open. She was faced with shocking eyes under dark curls. The boy from the fight. She noted the mix of green and gold in the blue eyes, a detail she’d missed from a distance. She stood there too long, staring open mouthed at his face. She realized she must look like a fool, standing there gaping. She went to close the door again, but he spoke, a deep grumble through the door.  
“My mum says I need to come apologize.”

“You didn’t even fight. What are you sorry for?” The words spill out before she has a chance to think about them, surprising her with their contrariness. She sounds cross. Whoever this stranger was, he was trying to peer in through the small opening she’d allowed. Her mother’s cries seemed to draw him in like a magnet. What would he do if he did manage to slither in?

“Well, it’s really Mikey who should be here. But he’s chicken and didn’t want to face you at home, so I came instead.” He tilted his head to the side, finally giving up on his attempts at nosiness to stare back at her. She didn’t know what to say, so she stood in the threshold, both of them awkwardly observing each other. Eventually the boy’s high cheeks burned red, a horrible clash against his pale skin.

It finally occurred to Molly to ask the most obvious question. She’d been so shocked that he’d shown up here at all, that she hadn’t realized. “How’d you even find out where we live?”

“It wasn’t hard to deduce that you were headed home, since you were standing in the entryway of an apartment complex with groceries.” His lips twitched into a smile before he schooled his expression back to neutral, eyes narrowing as he attempted nonchalance. “A half jug of milk, potatoes, and a can of condensed soup. Not exactly the most nutritious shopping list.”

Molly’s cheeks burned red. “Excuse me?”

“No offense, of course. Judging by the row going on back there, you’ve quite a monetary conundrum on your hands.”

“Apology not accepted. Go away.” She bit back tears, glaring at his coldness. He frowned, but said nothing as a couple of tears tracked down her face. He was not the savior she’d hoped for. She went to shut the door and found a foot thrust stubbornly in her way. 

“Sorry. Bad habit.” He wiggled a hand through the cracked door, a comical sight in the midst of her family’s chaos. The lone hand was paired with a hollowed voice, somehow distant despite his obvious proximity. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I sincerely apologize on behalf of the Holmes boys.” He sounded truly ashamed. Just a couple of tears did that?  
She probably should have told him to go away again. He’d already proven to be an ass, and her parents didn’t like others involved in their business. Still, something about the solemn and empty way he’d sounded drew her fingers to clasp his in an awkward handshake.

“Accepted from the Hooper siblings. Go on before you get me in trouble.” He hovered just a moment, squeezing her hand softly before leaving.

He slipped away just as her father headed back down their narrow hallway. The door clunked shut and she spun around, half expecting to hear the shouts directed at her.  
Instead, she was faced with the sight of her father pulling on his shoes, still mumbling under his breath. Her mother pursued him like a whirlwind, robe askew and eyes afire. 

“And now you’re just running away like the coward you are! Go on and tell the kids why you’re going, you dirty little sneak! Always out of here all times of the day, in and out like a ghost, taking phone calls every hour of the night. Tell them where you’re going, you rotten liar!” Her mother’s high cheeks were rosy, her face pointed up in a snobbish grimace.

“By Gods woman, you are insane. I go to work. I take work calls. I go to work so you can lie in your squalor,” he exploded at Nellie, spinning around so he faced Molly. For a second he looked as if he might explode at her too, but instead he set his mouth in a line and leaned down to her. A hand pressed down on her shoulder, his eyes piercing hers with something akin to sympathy.

Not enough sympathy to stay home tonight.

“Sweetie, I’m going to be back soon, alright? I’m just getting out of the house for a few hours. You have Uncle Tom’s number, don’t you?” Molly nodded. “Ok, be sure to call if anything happens. If your mom passes out before supper, you have my permission to go to Mary’s to eat, ok?”

Molly didn’t point out that ‘only a few hours’ meant he should be home before supper. She didn’t question what would happen if Mary’s mom didn’t want to provide food for the Hooper kids. She just nodded and watched him push past her and out the door.

“Why’d you do that for? Just let him leave like that.” Momma sniffled into the sleeves of her robe, swinging her ponytail around as she flopped onto the couch. 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

“Oh, no worry, baby. Come here to Momma. Make Momma feel better.” 

She edged forward, watching her mother for a sign of change. When she was close enough, she knelt down and draped hesitant arms around her shoulders. Immediately, alcohol soaked lips brushed her cheek, leaving watery kisses on her cheekbones.

“Your daddy don’t deserve us, does he? He’s just a little prude, don’t know how to have no fun.” Momma’s wet face rubbed against Molly’s forehead. “He just don’t want me to be happy. He broke my cd player, tore up my magazines. He thinks I don’t know he wants to run off with my babies. No one’s taking my babies.” Her voice faded into barely audible mutterings.

Molly felt a knot in her throat as her mother’s fingers pulled through her hair. She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she agree? What was she supposed to say?

She didn’t have to worry about it for long. Before the sloppy tears could dry on her blouse, Momma’s head drooped against her shoulder into long and heavy snores. 

Molly eased her mother back onto the couch and set to work cleaning up the broken dishes on the kitchen floor. There were four broken plates and two broken bowls, though one she thought she could maybe fix if she worked on it. She swept the pile into the dustpan and dumped it into the hanging bag on her pantry’s door. She busied herself, cleaning up the rest of the dishes and wiping down counters, bleaching the spots of blood that had dripped onto the white laminate during her mother’s doctoring attempt. 

Molly began picking up the bits and pieces of magazines strewn about the place. They could have been vacuumed up in minutes, but she didn’t risk the noise. Bits of lips and eyes and floral blouses were everywhere. How much of this had managed to actually end up on the collage? She cleaned for hours, fixing everything she could from her parents’ messes. Some of the damage was irreparable. 

A groan from the couch alerted to her to her mother’s waking. She scurried back into the kitchen, pulling down a plastic cup and two Excedrin. Through the pill bottle’s rattle she heard her mother’s croaking voice call out for her. A thin hand waved around the couch top, reaching for the cup that wasn’t there yet.

“Molly, where’s my drink, dear?”

“Coming Momma.” 

She hurried as fast as her feet could carry her, carefully placing first the pills, then the cup into her mother’s hand before she stepped back to see what was next.  
From the back room she could hear Toby’s cries beginning again, and she barely bit back her groan in time. The two always seemed to have impeccable timing.

“Oh, dear, bring me my little Toby.” 

Molly’s skin went cold. She couldn’t make her feet move to pick up the boy, even as her mind screamed at her to move. Her mother’s red-rimmed eyes zeroed in on her, one hand still rubbing her forehead.

“Go on now. I told you to do something.”

“Don’t you think…” Molly took a gulp of air before continuing. “Don’t you think you might want to give the medicine a chance to work first?” Toby’s cries grew louder. “He’d probably bother your head.”

“Go get Toby, Molly. Don’t argue with your mother.” 

Slowly, each step dragging longer than the last, she went to her room and picked up her little brother. She tried, unsuccessfully, to hush his growing cries. He was hungry, but Molly didn’t know where Momma hid the formula. Every pleading “shh” was met with increased howling. Toby gripped her harder when Momma reached for him, his sob swollen face shaking his dissatisfaction with the swap.

Momma bounced the little boy on her knee a few times, the smile sliding quickly from her face. “It’s ok, little Toby. Mommy’s got you, little baby.” 

Molly held her breath, silently begging Toby to quiet his cries for Momma just this once. Just this one time, respond to his mother’s sugary attempts to soothe him. It was to no avail.

Eventually, the bouncing stopped, and Momma’s adoring expression was replaced with a scowl. “What’s wrong with you, you howler? Hush.” 

“He’s hungry, Momma.” 

“I think I know what’s wrong with my own baby, Molly.” Momma puffed out her cheeks, brows drawn as she puzzled over the growing cries. “I raised two of you already, haven’t I?”

Molly cringed, but went back to the kitchen. She didn’t point out that neither she nor John qualified as anything near raised, each of them still in middle school. Toby’s crying continued, his throat raw before she’d finished making the bottle of apple juice. She turned to take it back only to find herself face-to-face with her mother, blue-grey eyes glowering under slit lids.

“Take the damned child. He’s been reaching for you since you handed me to him.” The warbling voice shook, but Momma stepped back and plopped back on the couch. “Bring me a drink.”

Molly glanced into the cupboards. They were almost out of her mother’s favorites. Whatever she’d bought today must be hidden somewhere. Her mother never realized that hiding her liquor just made it more difficult for Molly to make the drinks. It didn’t keep Daddy from taking them away.

The baby rubbed his nose into her neck, spreading snot and slobber into her collar. He suckled the bottle, little tummy rumbling against her arm. She didn’t bother to ask what her mother wanted. It was late, so of course it was time for the nightly vodka tonic. She wondered how many times she’d heard the excuse “Oh, dear, it just helps me sleep.”  
“Hurry up now, my show’s about to start.” 

She’d apparently been taking too long, since Momma stood and sauntered over, one hand perched on her hip and the other rubbing at the vein throbbing at her temple. She reached the trashcan where all the broken dishes were piled and paused, mouth twisted into a pout. 

“What did you do to my dishes, Molly?”

Molly stopped pulling Toby’s hands away from her hair to properly face her mother. “I didn’t. You... you needed space to clean John’s face and you knocked them over. Don’t you remember?” Her voice grew smaller and smaller as Momma’s grimace deepened. 

“These were my mother’s plates. I’ve had them longer than I’ve had you. What makes you think you have the right to break my stuff?”

“Momma, you broke them. Remember? You had to—”

“Don’t lie to me!” 

Toby started his crying again, and Molly wished for the umpteenth time that day that just once someone would hear all the noise and come to see what was going on. She recalled the boy—Sherlock Holmes—from earlier, craning his neck around trying to see into the apartment. What would he think now?

“I’m not lying. You had to clean John’s cuts and—”

“Are you trying to blame me for this? This mess?” Momma stood toe to toe with her, a plate fragment pushed to Molly’s face. 

She set Toby down, nudging him away with her foot. His bottle clacked as he crawled away, tears slowed by the wonders of freedom. She straightened back to her mother’s livid face and tried to think of a way out. She kept an eye on the quivering shard waving around her face, careful to dodge the sharp points and jagged edges.

“No, Momma. I didn’t break your plates. It was all an accident. You just needed to get to the sink, is all.” She kept her words non-abrasive, a whisper.

She jumped when the plate piece brandished at her broke against the ground, sending fragments scattering across the tiles. Her mother’s nails dug into her arms, bared teeth pressing hot breath against her face. 

“I didn’t have no accident, child. Now you admit to what you’ve done and clean up your mess.”

“Yes, Momma.” Molly felt her insides hollow, the physical seeping away of her will as she fessed up to a mess she didn’t make. Her concession did not loosen the claws in her skin, or remove the sneer from her mother’s face. 

“Yes, Momma what?”

“Yes, Momma, I’ll clean up my mess. I’m sorry for messing up your plates.” She caught herself on her palms as her mother shoved her down, the grit of broken ceramics biting through her skin. Momma stood over her and finished her drink.

She knew better than to stand up to get the broom. She’d have to pick up every sliver with her bare hands under her mother’s watchful eye. For the next half hour she picked up bits and pieces of broken dinnerware from the cracks in the floor, listening for her father to come home. Halfway through her picking she heard the snap of a window. She was forced to wait until she’d removed as much of her mother’s destruction as possible before she could slip away down the hall and into her shared bedroom.

She closed the doors on the sounds of laughing and coddling and corny soap operas. John sat on his bed, feet propped against wall and a fresh ice pack against his face.

“Is that from Mary’s house?”

“Yeah. She made these for us, too.” He held out a couple of fresh baked rolls, still warm in his palm.

“Mrs. Morstan or Mary?”

“Mary, this time. She said she wants to be a baker one day.” 

Molly bit into the buttery, crisp outside, and realized for the first time that she hadn’t eaten all afternoon. Her stomach protested loudly. She spoke through the mouthful of bread, examining the bits of John’s face not covered by the ice bag.

“Does it still hurt?”

He shot her an incredulous look from his good eye. “No, I just like numbing half of my face.”

“Come on. Let’s clean it properly. You’re lucky you don’t need stitches on that lip.”

He scowled, but followed her to the bathroom regardless. She rummaged around and found the cotton swabs and peroxide under the sink. Careful to soak the ball of fluff thoroughly, she dabbed it carefully against John’s lip, noting that he had more cuts than she’d initially realized. Dried blood turned the white to muddied red. He hissed against the cool touch of peroxide, but did not stop her from cleaning the rest of his face.

“Why did you fight that boy, John? You know Momma’s a drunk. Half the school knows that by now.”

“He didn’t have to talk about it like that. He made it sound so hopeless, like we’d never get out of here.”

“John, you know we will. One day we won’t have to bother with all this anymore.” She readied another cotton ball, this one for the raw pink scratches left from her mother’s fits. “He probably didn’t mean anything by it. You have to stop fighting people, John.”

John pouted, but didn’t argue.

Back at their room, John yanked the bedroom window open. 

“Again? You just came back from there.”

“Mary said she wanted to show me her new kitten. She has to hide it in the closet so her mom doesn’t find it.” 

“Why do you care about kittens?” John just blushed, a goofy grin breaking out across his face. He disappeared through the window, the clunk of his feet on the fire escape louder than wise as he crossed over to Mary’s room.

Molly curled into her covers, closing her eyes against the breeze blowing in from outside. She listened to the tinkling of laughter from the other side of the wall, the happy sound of a music box carried on the night’s wind. Despite the sounds from the other apartment, she found herself thinking of the multicolored eyes from her doorway. She remembered the empty echo of his apology. She pondered the large hand that had forced its way through her doorway and the squeeze it had given hers before he’d walked away.

She fell asleep before John returned, dreaming of dark curls and blue eyes on a boy named Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Two Boys from the Devil

The next day, in the middle of studying, another knock sounded at the door. Momma insisted on answering, but Molly could see through the crack in the door that it was Sherlock Holmes, back again. 

“Can I speak with the Hooper siblings?”

“John! Some boy is here to talk to you.” 

Molly waited for her mother to call her over, eyes peering over her schoolbook. John stepped outside, face cross, and Momma closed the door. Molly didn’t get to go outside, but in the brief moment before the door closed, her eyes connected with blue.

John returned hours later, grinning. He told her about Sherlock’s house. He had a dog and two really nice parents. Molly listened with rapt attention.

Sherlock showed up a week later, asking the same question. “Can I speak with the Hooper siblings?”

Again, Momma sent out John and left Molly to clean the kitchen.

This was his routine for the next two years, always with the same question, and always watching her as the door closed.  
________________________________________

Molly woke in the early morning to a knock at her window. Sherlock, John and Mary all stood on the rickety fire escape. The two boys breathed smoke from their cigarettes. She dragged herself from the warmth of her covers, grateful for the hundredth time that she wore conservative pajamas. 

The air around her bed was freezing. Mary knocked again, hurrying her into her coat and gloves. She yanked the window up, hissing at the loud scrape of the metal. She glanced behind her before throwing a leg over, listening for her parents to wake or Toby to cry. 

“Hurry up and get out here. You’ll let the smoke in.” John pulled her the rest of the way through.

“Shut up. You shouldn’t even be smoking. It’s disgusting.” She ignored the sway of the fire escape and shoved the window nearly shut. 

The space was small, forcing the four of them to huddle together. Molly smiled when John took the opportunity to wrap his arm around Mary, both of them blushing brightly. 

“Molly, we’re going to the mall later. Want to come?” The other girl spoke up. She nudged her boyfriend away with an elbow, staring at Molly expectantly.

“Oh, no, I’d hate to impose.” Molly glanced down at her reindeer mittens, trying to hide her blush behind her morning frizz hair. “Besides, we’ve got exams coming up. Shouldn’t we be studying?”

“Come on, Molly. They’ll just hang all over each other if you’re not there. Something about bringing baby sister along just cools them off.” Sherlock crushed his cigarette beneath his boot, blue eyes watching her. “I’ll be bored to death without you.” He winked at her.

Molly’s stomach squirmed. She hated when he called her John’s baby sister. The term, no matter how endearing he meant it to sound, made her want to shout “I found you first!” Of course, she didn’t, but the desire bubbled up in her every time he said the words.

“No, really. I’ve really been struggling in history. I better stay back and work on it.” She turned away to look through the cool glass of the window. Toby was starting to wiggle in his toddler bed. “Thanks for the invite.”

“I could tutor you.” 

She’d expected that offer from Mary, but it wasn’t her voice that made her pause at the window frame. She looked behind her to find those cool eyes still on her, cupid bow lips tilted up in a smile. The combination knocked the breath from her.

“Ay, you trying to make a move on my sister?” John broke the moment, eyes darting between the two of them. “Absolutely not. She’s off limits.”

“Of course he wasn’t, John. Besides, I can handle it myself.” She hurriedly yanked the window up, muttering curses at the screeching metal. One day that noise would wake her parents up and she’d be in a world of trouble.

She came in just in time. Their talking had woken the child, and he was just about to let out his morning roar for cereal. She reached a hand out to hold his, placing one finger over her mouth in a silent shushing. She gestured towards the kitchen, watching his eyes light up. He grinned at her, nodding until his blond hair flopped over into his face. 

“Do you need to go potty, Toby?” He shook a no at her, but she steered him towards the bathroom anyway. He notoriously lied about potty time. She led him inside and helped him with his Pull-up.

“Don’t look!” He pushed her out the door, face scrunched in a childlike determination. “Go, go, go!” She’d barely made it out when he slammed the door behind her.  
She tip-toed to the kitchen, surprised that she still hadn’t heard a peep from anyone else in the house. Two bowls of Count Chocula later, she heard tiny feet pattering down the hall. 

“Ready!” He whispered, loudly. 

“Count Chocula today, bud. We ran out of your peanut butter cereal.” He pouted his bottom lip, but took his bowl anyway. 

They were halfway through eating before the first few noises came from the back bedroom.

“No, baby, don’t hold your spoon that way, you’ll make a mess.” She reached over and corrected the awkward angle Toby had his spoon, watching the hallway for sign of her mother. 

Scooping the last of her cereal into her mouth quickly, she managed to swallow the last bit before Momma emerged, shuffling her bedraggled sleep-worn body into the light. Molly pulled her backpack from a chair and grabbed her history book, flipping through the pages before her mother could ask her to do anything.

“Did you feed my boy? You don’t feed my boy, that’s a mother’s job.” Momma pulled the half full bowl from Toby, who’d digressed to playing with his spoon on his nose. “Fetch me a drink.”

Molly pushed her nose into her book and rolled her eyes. She pretended not to hear her mother’s request. Instead, she read the same sentence three times while she listened to her mother grumble about making her own drink.

“What you got your head in a book for anyway? You think you’re better’n all of us? Gonna go catch yourself a college education?” Momma laughed wryly, clunking a tall bottle of vodka onto the counter. “I got news for you, sweets. You ain’t pretty enough to spread your legs, and you ain’t smart enough to get a scholarship. Unless you got a rich Uncle hiding somewhere, you better give up those smart dreams of yours.”

Momma threw back her head, taking a large gulp of the clear liquid sloshing in her glass. How odd, Molly thought. She usually at least filled the glass with orange juice in the mornings.

“Just Vodka today?” 

“It was a hard night.” Momma took another gulp, baring her teeth before turning back to her daughter. “Don’t you dare judge me for it, either. You think I don’t see you prancing around here acting like your better’n me?”

Molly lowered her eyes, trying to close out the oncoming storm. She’d heard this before.

“You always got your little books out all over the place. Always going on about college and whatnot? I got news for you, you ain’t the only one around here that had big plans. I had big plans, and lookit me now. This where you want to end up? Quit while you’re ahead.” She refilled the vodka, grabbing the orange juice from the fridge this time. “And quit feeding my baby. That’s a mother’s job.”

Molly bit her tongue. If she’d left it up to Momma to feed Toby, the poor boy would have starved to death years ago. 

She studied for hours. She moved through her subjects slowly, testing and retesting her knowledge until she was certain she’d do fine on her exams. She’d done the same thing yesterday and she’d do the same thing tomorrow. After her initial outburst, Momma sat quietly on the couch, watching her soaps and occasionally mumbling at Molly to get control of Toby. Sometime in the afternoon she fell asleep, spilling her drink on the carpet.

She’d just closed her last book when the door burst open, John wandering in with Sherlock. She avoided the pair of them, putting her books away and picking up her papers. She hadn’t had the chance to clean yet, so toys and bits of her mother’s projects were strewn about the place. Molly hurried to slip the vodka back into the freezer, but she wasn’t fast enough.

“Vodka for breakfast? Didn’t peg you as the type.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, leaning his chin on one hand while she finished putting away her school supplies.

“I’m not.” Her cheeks burned red.

“Did a hurricane come through here?” He directed this question to John while he grimaced at a bit of juice spilled on the counter. Dishes were still piled in the sink.

Molly frowned, cocking her hip as she faced him. “Excuse me, but are you going to clean the place up?”

“It’s not my house,” he scoffed, flopping down on a kitchen chair. It screeched backward. Molly flinched at the noise and swung her head to her mother, who shifted on the couch but settled back into sleep.

“Don’t make so much noise! Do you usually waltz into ‘not your house’ and start insulting people?”

He didn’t pause before he answered. “Yes. All the time.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms before she realized she was still in her pajamas. She hadn’t even combed her hair yet. She blushed again and turned away, grabbing a rag to clean up her mother’s spills.

He hummed behind her, a deep rattling sound that made her insides quiver. She’d just finished clearing off the orange stain when she heard a crash, a whistle. She spun around to see Sherlock standing innocently at the table, her bowl from the morning flipped over on the floor. She checked to make sure the noise hadn’t disturbed her mother, who let out a loud snore.

“I’m not cleaning that up, asshat. Where’s John? Isn’t he supposed to be keeping you out of trouble?” She tossed him the dampened rag to wipe up the bit of milk. 

“Just testing. He’s getting ready for round two of snogging with Mary. You really should have come. It was the most boring third wheel experience I think I’ve ever engaged in.”

“Oh, yeah. Really wish I could’ve gone to that.” She rolled her eyes. “If I wanted to see John and Mary going at it, I’d just go back to our room when they think no one’s home.” He snickered, but didn’t move to clean the mess he’d made.

He was still watching her, something studious in his gaze. She fidgeted, checking again that her Mom wasn’t stirring. Toby was playing cars in front of the television, everyone hushed to accommodate the shadowed room. After a few minutes of silent standoff, she sighed and grabbed the dishrag to clean up. Once she conceded, he took the rag back from her and cleaned, picking up the bowl and dumping it in the overfilled sink.

“If a dog has been mistreated by its owner, the dog will react with fear even when it has done nothing wrong.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear, his hand gripping hers. She remembered the first time he’d held her hand, and felt the same gentle squeeze of comfort. “You are not a dog. Don’t act like one.” 

She stood absolutely still, sure she was imagining the brush of his lips against her ear, or the ghost of his breath over her skin. He kissed her cheek, a slight gesture of condolence that forced her eyes closed. 

“Ay! What did I say about my sister? Keep your hands off.” 

“We were just having a bit of a heart to heart.” He leaned away from her, dropping her hand, but keeping eye contact until she looked away.

Both of them turned to see John in a ridiculous Christmas sweater. He held out his hands, a grin on his face that made Molly giggle.

“What on earth is that?” She managed to calm her laughter before it grew too loud.

“Mary got it for me. She said it suited my shape. What do you think?”

“You look like a giant snowflake. Let’s go, now. Mary will have my head if you’re late again.” Sherlock tossed the remark over his shoulder as he headed out the door.  
“I don’t know why she expects you to keep up with me. You’re late more often than I am.” John shrugged. 

The two of them made their way out of the apartment, leaving Molly alone to process her speeding pulse. The spot on her cheek where his lips met her skin still tingled. His words repeated in her head, filling her with a mix of shame and relief. She didn’t come out of her thoughts until Toby pulled at her pajama pants.

“Hungwee. Sissy, hung-WEEee.” 

“Shh. Sissy will get it. Be quiet, ok?” He nodded and put his finger to his lips.

Molly checked the fridge and found a carton of eggs, three bottles of orange juice, and a half empty jug of milk. Two slices of cheese sat in the dairy slot, and that was it.  
She smiled at her brother, pulling out a slice of cheese. She found two slices of bread in the bread box and threw together a grilled cheese and a glass of milk, sitting him at the table with strict instructions to be careful. He nodded at her, mouth full of cheese poking out between snaggled teeth. 

Her luck did not hold long enough for Toby to finish his sandwich. Her mother woke with a snort, sitting up rapidly.

“Your dad home yet?” Her voice was groggy, and her eyes sunken. 

“Not yet, Momma. It’s only two in the afternoon. He won’t be home for a couple of hours.” 

“Fetch me a drink.” Molly hurried, grabbing another glass and tossing together the juice and vodka. It was too early for the nightcap and they were out of her mother’s other favorites.

She couldn’t have hurried fast enough to keep Momma from smelling the food in the air. She should’ve just given it to him plain, but he wouldn’t eat the bread if the cheese wasn’t melted to it. Still, the thought occurred that she should have waited when Momma stood up, murder in her eyes.

“What did I tell you about feeding my baby? That’s a mother’s job, now. Take it away.”

Molly shrank back, the glass in her hands trembling. “I can’t, Momma. He was hungry.”

“So? Take it away.” Momma sidled next to Toby, kissing his grinning cheeks. She spoke in a cooing voice, “Mommy’ll make her baby some num-nums.” Molly’s stomach sank.   
“There’s nothing else to make, Momma. If I take the sandwich away, we don’t have anything else for him to eat.”

“You used up the last of our food?” Momma threw her hands up, exasperated. “What about me? What about your Momma, girl? Am I supposed to starve?”

“I just didn’t want to wake you, Momma. Toby was hungry and I didn’t want to wake you.” She cursed the tears springing to her eyes, cursed her retreating feet.

You’re not a dog.

She certainly felt like one.

“Wake me? You’d rather me starve to death than wake me?” Her mother’s voice was shrill, and Toby started crying from the table.

Molly backed against a corner of the counter, trying to wipe the tears away before Momma saw. She held the drink out, hoping the peace offering would throw the woman off her case. Her shoulders sagged with relief when the glass was taken from her hand. 

She straightened back up when Momma poured the drink on the floor, watching her intently. 

“Now you clean that up, and make me another.” Molly nodded, moving forward to take the glass. At least she had ensured Toby got to finish his food. “Get off your high horse around here, thinking you can decide who eats and who don’t. Thinking you can strut about with your books and your schooling and tell me how to do my job. You ain’t the only one who had learning.”

Molly listened to her mother rant while she cleaned and refilled the glass. She continued listening while she did the dishes and wiped down the counters. The tirade lasted until her father came home and Momma pranced with a happy grin to kiss him on the cheek. 

“Where’s John at, Nel?” He pushed her away, looking her in the eyes and sneering when he saw them glazed over.

“He’s out.” Molly spoke up from the kitchen, glad to finally be free from the grating force of her mother’s disapproval.

“Where’d he go to? Back out with that Mary character?”

“Yeah. They went out with Sherlock to some kind of dinner, I think.” She rounded the corner, smiling at her father’s work-worn face.

“Why didn’t you go? Didn’t you want out of the house?”

“Well, you know. I had studying to do. Besides, uh, Momma was asleep.” She said the last bit quietly, hoping Momma wouldn’t hear.

“I didn’t doze for more than two minutes! Don’t exaggerate, dear.” Momma waved off her lie from the couch, all her teeth showing in a bright grin. She motioned Molly over, dragging her down onto the sofa. “Now, come sit with Momma and watch some soaps. Daddy’s gonna make us some supper.”

Daddy sighed as he put his briefcase on the table and ruffled Toby’s hair. “I’m not cooking, Nel. I just spent nine hours at an office taking work calls. You can get off the soaps long enough to—” Molly heard the refrigerator door open, and then Daddy sighed again. “Molly, want to go out and get some groceries?”

“Sure, Daddy.” She hopped up, ignoring her mother’s grasping arms, and hurried to take the keys. “What do we need?”

“Just something for tonight. We can’t afford much. Pick out something easy to cook. Do you mind making supper tonight?”

Molly waited for her mother’s “that’s a mother’s job” to issue from the couch, but was met with only silence. “Sure, I’ll make supper.”

“That’s a good girl. Hurry back now.”

She was almost out the door when Momma leapt up and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek. “Be safe now, dear! Don’t steal none of your Daddy’s money, now!” Momma chuckled like she’d made a great joke and sat back down, eyes glued to the television as if she’d not done a thing.

By the time Molly returned, she could hear the screams in the apartment hallway. Other tenants who were poking their heads out for a clearer show gave her piteous stares as she fumbled with her key. 

“NEL, YOU CAN’T JUST ORDER CRAFTS OFFLINE. CREDIT CARDS AREN’T MAGIC!” Her father’s voice boomed from inside, and she considered not going in at all. 

Then she heard Toby wailing in the background, and she finished turning the key to step inside.

The two parents were face to face, both red and yelling. Toby sat in front of a pile of toy cars, big, blobby tears sliding down his cheeks. She dropped the groceries on the table and scooped him up, whispering, “it’s ok” into his ear as she rushed back to their room and closed the door.

They fell asleep curled together against the noise, the soft tune of a music box in a windowsill playing over them like a lullaby. She’d have to thank Mrs. Morstan tomorrow.  
________________________________________

John didn’t show up for two days.

When Molly had asked Mary at school on Monday morning if she’d seen John, the girl had given her a confused look and said she’d thought he’d gone home over the weekend. No one at school had heard from him or Sherlock since they were last seen at a party Saturday night. 

It wasn’t until she was returning home that she found John, still in his Christmas sweater, grinning from ear to ear as he waited for her at their bus stop. Sherlock wasn’t with him, but John insisted he’d be by later.

“What do you think Mom’s going to do?” He walked with his hands behind his head, shoulders swinging in a swagger.

“I don’t know that she even realized you were gone. She and Daddy have been at it pretty bad.” 

“That’s nice to know. Hey, I’m inviting a couple of friends over. Do you think you can help me clean up before they get here?”

“Didn’t you just hear me? You’re bringing them to the trenches.” She ground her jaw, holding back a long list of retorts.

“Ah, Momma won’t do nothing in front of strangers. Besides, they’ll be gone before Dad gets back.” He shrugged off her worry, and she envied his confidence.

“John, I’m always the one picking up. Do it yourself.” She had a lot of studying to do anyway, she didn’t have time.

“One of them is Sherlock.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. She didn’t respond. “Don’t worry, you’ll like the other guy. He invited us over to his place this weekend. He’s got a nice place with a pool and everything. He gave me a ride today.”

“Why didn’t you have him take you home?”

John shifted uncomfortably before he faced her. “Well, I figured you missed me, Sis. Besides, couldn’t explain to Mom why I wasn’t at school, could I?”

“You’re the worst, John.” She entered the apartment code and waited for the gate to open. “But I did worry over you. And so did Mary. You better tell her you’re home safe.”

“Of course I will.”

“And you better actually help me clean. I’m not your maid, I’m not going to be cleaning by myself so you don’t get embarrassed in front of your friends.”

They entered to a silent apartment, and Molly immediately went to check on Toby. He slept, still and warm, in his toddler bed. Momma was passed out in her usual spot on the couch. Molly set to work picking up the bits of paper and trash strewn about, occasionally barking orders at John to wipe down the table or sweep up the kitchen. By the time Momma woke up the house was clean.

Molly was relieved that she seemed to be in a particularly good mood, kissing both her and John on the cheek before she spooned out Saturday’s leftovers.

A sharp knock against the door signaled their guests’ arrival. John glanced nervously around the room before opening the door and inviting them in.

The moment she saw Sherlock, she remembered the feel of his hand in hers, his lips pressed against her cheek. She breathed in sharply and smiled at him. He turned his head away, hands stuffed in his pockets. Molly frowned but greeted the next guest.

He was handsome, in a fancy kind of way. His dark hair was slicked back and he had shiny shoes. Standing in the midst of Fred’s furniture and Dollar Store decor, he looked impeccably sophisticated. Her face turned red when his eyes caught hers, a smile splitting his face. 

“Well, hello there. What a beauty you are.” He leaned over, coal black eyes connected to hers in his mock bow. He reached for her hand, kissing her fingers like a prince in a fairy tale. Molly found it all a bit ridiculous. “I’m James Moriarty. You can call me Jim.” He winked at her and she laughed.

“Isn’t all that hand kissing a bit corny?” 

“Says the girl with pigtails and polka dot bows in her hair.” Sherlock quipped, eyes narrowed at Jim.

Molly flushed, running her hands over the two braids she’d worn to school today. She hadn’t thought much of it, at the time. Now the adorable braids felt childish and silly.

“I think they suit her.” Jim only smiled dreamily back at her, eyebrows raised. “Like an innocent little mouse.”

“Mice are hardly pretty. Or innocent. Your compliment doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, what a jealous little boyfriend you are.”

Sherlock straightened, stepping away from her and crossing his arms. “She’s my best friend’s baby sister.”

“Right.” Of course, Molly thought, always just his best friend’s baby sister. “Nice to meet you, Jim.” 

Jim winked at her again. He walked into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of orange juice. Molly waited for Momma to stop him, to say something about her juice.  
Instead, Molly watched with horror as her mother’s eyes skimmed over Jim in obvious appreciation. The woman sauntered from the living room, swaying halfway, to stand beside him. Jim shot her a quirked eyebrow, but didn’t move away as Momma leaned too close to fix her own drink. 

“Want some?” Momma held out the vodka bottle to Jim.

Molly didn’t get to find out his answer. The apartment door swung open, banging against the wall.

Her dad stepped through, and the three boys hurried off down the hall. Molly almost followed them, but something about her father’s face made her stop. Daddy’s face was red and his eyes were swollen. Something was wrong. He was eyeing the bottle in Momma’s hand, anger passing in a storm cloud over his expression.

“Nel, we need to have a talk. Now, you’ve got to stop drinking. We can’t afford it anymore.”

“Now, dear, we’ve had this discussion before. I need the inspiration.”

He dropped his briefcase by the door and began removing his tie, hands shaking. “Look, I don’t care what you call it. I don’t care if you think it’s liquid gold. We can’t afford it, and once your stock is gone it’s gone for good.”

“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t buy, Stephan. It’s my money too! I get a say!”

“There is no money, Nel! Thanks to you, I lost my job!” 

Molly’s blood went cold.

He rounded on Momma, gripping her shoulders and shaking her until she spit out a retort. “Thanks to me? You can’t blame me for losing your bullshit job, Stephan!” 

Molly backed away from the pair, mouth hanging open. She picked up Toby and carried him, kicking and screaming, away from Daddy and into their room. She looked around for John or even Sherlock, her bottom lip quivering.

It was empty. The window was open. She was alone.

She curled into a ball and cried, listening to the argument rage. Toby patted her shoulders, asking her over and over again if she was ok. She didn’t know how to tell him what had happened.

Daddy didn’t have a job.

They didn’t have any money. 

What were they going to do?

“Listen to me, woman. Don’t think I don’t know what you do around here all day, buying art crap off the internet and bullying telemarketers all day. You’ve got to stop this nonsense. Get your head out of the clouds, because you’re going to run us to the ground.”

“You’re the one who lost his job. You can’t blame that on me! What’d you do? Get caught fucking Josie over the printers? Think I don’t know about Josie? Think I don’t know about all your late night phone calls?”

“Shut UP, Nel. Dammit, just shut the hell up!” Something glass crashed, followed by another and another. It took too long for her to realize what was happening.  
Daddy was smashing Momma’s bottles.

He thundered into her room, Momma hot on his tail. 

“Give me Toby, Molly. I’m going. I’ll be back in the morning. Just give me Toby. I’ve got to get out of this damned hell of a house.”

“Daddy?” He yanked Toby from her arms, and the boy’s cries stopped immediately. She stared at Momma’s fiery face for a second and then grabbed her father’s arm before he rushed from the room. “Take me with you.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow to pick up you and John. Get his ass back here, Molly. You hear me?”

Molly nodded, tears welling up in her eyes as she watched him run through the door. Momma followed him out, begging him to stay.

“We’ll work on it, baby. We’ll make it better. Come on, don’t go. Don’t take my baby. Don’t take my Toby.” 

He shook her off, storming towards the door. Molly watched him until he disappeared down the hallway. Momma collapsed into sobs on the floor, screaming for him to come back until her voice was hoarse.

Molly stared at the door until Momma’s breaths evened out into sleep. Then she turned and ran to her room, grabbing any bag she could find on the way.

John was waiting for her.

“He said he’s coming back for us in the morning.” She explained as quickly as she could. John’s watery eyes brightened, and he started helping her toss stuff into bags.

They packed only the essentials. Clothes, toothbrushes, toothpaste. Molly was sure to pack some of Toby’s warmest clothes. For the first time that she could remember, hope bloomed to life in her chest.

They were going to get out.

They were going to be free.

She could imagine it, had imagined it, a hundred times. Waking up without having to make Momma’s “wake-me-up breakfast.” Going to sleep without having to worry about covering her bruises at school. It was heaven. Heaven was just one tomorrow away.

“I’m going to go tell Mary goodbye.” They’d stacked everything in between their room and their parents’ room. 

“Ok, but I doubt we’re moving too far away. At least not at first.”

“Just in case, you know.” And then he disappeared out the window again.

She took the time to sneak into her parents’ room and pack up her daddy’s stuff. She took anything that looked remotely of value and stuffed it into the last bag, along with work shirts and work pants and all of his ties. By the time she finished the bag was bursting at the seams, but she held it together long enough to toss it onto the pile of luggage they’d already gathered.

John returned soon after and pulled Mary’s music box from his pocket.

“She said we could have it, in case we didn’t see her again.” His voice was thick, and his eyes puffy from crying, but even she could see that he was ready.

He wound up the small knob on the bottom of the box and they listened to the tinkling music while they waited. Neither of them could sleep, so they sat out on the luggage.   
Molly watched her mother’s form crumpled by the door, the rise and fall of her chest the only sign that she was alive. She listened past the music of the box for the sound of a key in the lock or footsteps down the hall. Long after John began to snore, she listened and watched and waited.

She was still waiting as the sun shone through their bedroom doorway. Her alarm went off for school, and she still sat staring at the door.

After the fifth bleep of the alarm, she nudged John awake.

“Come on, John. We need to go to school.”

“Can’t we skip?”

“Not unless you want to fail. We’ve got exams today.”

“Bugger exams. I don’t care about exams.”

“John, it’s important. Don’t you ever want to get out of here?”

“We are getting out of here.” 

“Just in case. Maybe he plans to check us out of school?” She didn’t say just in case Daddy changes his mind. Just in case Daddy doesn’t show. Just in case he leaves them behind. The fear had chipped away at her confidence with every passing hour of the night and morning.

“Hm. You’re right.” He stifled a yawn behind his hand. “Dad knew we had exams today, didn’t he?”

She watched him disappear into the bathroom, and continued watching the door. She didn’t want to miss it if it opened. She was still waiting on their pile of goods when her mother sat up, glaring around the room.

“What the hell are all those bags for? You planning on leavin’ me too?” 


	3. A Time for Toby

Molly’s stomach twisted into knots. Her mother’s face sneered at her from the living room.

“You and the boy think you can just abandon me here? I won’t let him take you. I won’t let him run off with any more of my babies.” Momma sat up more fully, crimson rising high on her cheeks. “Bring me a drink.”

Anger bubbled up in Molly’s chest. Words like fire poured out, a barrage she’d never dared before. “You don’t have any more.” She stomped down the hallway, courage building. “We are not your babies. We have never been your babies. I will fight you. When he comes back to get me, you won’t be able to keep me in this hell.” 

John poked his head out at her. His eyes were wide, mouth gaping. She ignored him and stepped up the hall, glaring down her mother as she neared the doorway. 

“We’ve got school, and you’ve got a mess to clean up. There’s glass all over the kitchen. I’m not staying home to take care of you today, Momma. Time to grow up.” She stood over Momma, hands on her hips.

Momma lunged up at her, teeth bared and nostrils flaring. Her fingers tightened around Molly’s wrists, dragging her closer. Fear and pride left a hot and cold sensation over her skin, but she didn’t break eye contact. Without warning the grip on her wrists released. Momma stepped back, eyes glinting like flint at Molly. 

“You think you can talk that way to your momma?” Momma let out a cutting laugh, marching across the living room to stand in the kitchen. “Your daddy ain’t coming back for you. You wouldn’t be so brave if you knew the truth. He never intended to take you with him. He’s running out of state. You two are already screwed up. Ain’t no helping you.”   
Molly took a deep breath, watching the color drain from John’s face. “He said he’d come back.”

“What would you have done if he’d said otherwise, dear? Dragged him back in? Kept him from leaving? He’s left you behind.” Momma smirked at her, leaning back onto the counter. “Go on to school now. Good luck on your exams.”

“Molly, we have to go. Come on. He’ll probably get us from school.” John’s voice was small as he pushed Molly out the door. “Don’t worry. She’s just trying to get us riled up.”  
Down the hallway they could hear the desperate slamming of cabinets. Momma’s screams about her broken bottles followed them all the way to the stairwell.  
Despite John’s reassurance, both were too afraid to speak about their mother’s claims their entire walk to school. Molly avoided her friends, opting instead to hurry straight to her first class. Of course, on the one day she wanted to avoid him, Sherlock caught her in the hall. He usually didn’t bother talking to her at school, but last night must have prompted his pity. She held back the urge to push him away, tears threatening to spill. She didn’t want to be confronted with his questions or his attempts at sympathy.

She was shocked when he didn’t say anything to her, just pulled her into a loose hug, head tilted down, eyes questioning. He kept his arm on her shoulders the entire walk to their classroom. He took the seat directly behind hers.

She forced herself to sit still and ignore the persistent prodding on her arm from behind as Sherlock tried to get her attention. She could tell the curiosity was killing him. The knot in her throat silenced her while her ears listened intently for the buzz of the intercom. She knew, any second, they’d call her and John’s name and she’d find Daddy and Toby in the office. He’d explain everything, and all of Molly’s fears would be proven to be ridiculously unfounded.

Sherlock’s attempts to gain her attention slowly fell away as the teacher began explaining the exams, passing thick booklets down the rows of desks. She glanced at the front page, the words blurring together and sliding away as her eyes refused to focus on the letters. She signed her name in shaking, sloping letters, grimacing at her sloppy work.  
She sat through half the class, holding back tears and straining her ears, without answering more than ten questions. Endless hours of study went to waste as she glared numbly at the black and white page.

Finally, she heard the static of the intercom. A sharp female voice called out over the heads of the students “Molly and John Hooper to the office please. We need Molly and John Hooper to the office. Please bring your bags.”

She trembled as she gathered her supplies and closed up her test. The teacher mouthed a “we’ll discuss it later,” as she scrambled into the hallway. Just as she turned to close the heavy door behind her, she caught sight of Sherlock leaning back in his chair with his booklet closed, eyebrows knit together as he watched her leave. It struck her that this might be the last time she saw him, and she fought back the urge to mouth a goodbye. 

She’d be back tomorrow, probably. She’d just come from a different home. Somewhere happier.

The click of the door echoed through the silent hallway. She and John were coming from different ends of the school, so she didn’t meet him until he stood, pale faced, in front of the office door. 

His eyes were fixed unblinking on their mother, sitting at the principal’s desk, dabbing at her eyes with a small napkin. Momma snorted and sniffled in tears, and Molly felt her insides turn to ice. Daddy hadn’t come. Was Momma going to try to take them away before he could get them? Had he come back home and she wanted to rub their noses in it?

“Come in children. We need to discuss some news.” An officer Molly hadn’t noticed before spoke from beside Principal Wanda. Molly couldn’t hold his gaze. The sympathetic shine to his features made her heartbeat speed. 

“Well, get on with it then. What’s happened?” John’s voice was choked, and he hadn’t looked away from Momma.

“There’s been an accident. We regret to inform you that Stephan and Toby Hooper were identified this morning in the remains of wreckage from a car crash.”

The ice inside Molly snapped, shattering her nerves like glass. Her head swung wildly in denial, her hands letting go of her backpack with a thud. She saw nothing besides her mother sitting in the small office chair, muffling tiny sniffles under a wadded napkin. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She just stood there, gaping like a fish. It was John who said what she struggled to get out.

“You’ve got to have made a mistake. Dad was on his way to come get us. I mean, you’ve probably just got the wrong guy.” His voice was deceptively level, hitching only when he mentioned his father. 

Molly imagined him with his hands running down his jeans, eyes shining with tears. She should turn to comfort him, to say something to him, but her feet were glued to the ground and her vision narrowed to her mother’s weeping.

“I’m sorry. He’s been positively identified.” Principal Wanda moved to put a comforting hand on Molly’s shoulder, but she took a wooden step back. 

Somehow, the officer left and someone explained that they would be excused from the exams. Molly vaguely heard someone mention explaining to their teachers, her mind slogging through the drifting fog of words to catch the bits that may have meaning. Principal Wanda offered to lend a hand if they needed, and Molly almost fell from the precipice of trauma. 

Their mother took them home. The house still smelled strongly of vodka. Glass was scattered through the kitchen and dining room. Molly noticed several new additions to the shards. No doubt they were the remnants of their final drinking cups. She imagined her mother’s frustration as she’d searched the cabinets, saw the smashing of every offending glass clearly in her mind’s eye. She was still imagining this scenario when John nudged her, alerting her to a question she’d missed.

“You’re going to pick up all your bags and put all your stuff away. And don’t you keep a single thing of your Daddy’s in this place.” Molly said nothing, noting the thin white line around Momma’s lips and the raw redness under her nose.

She and John emptied all the bags, turning over Daddy’s valuables and Toby’s toys in their hands with glossy eyes. Neither dared cry. Neither dared speak of the loss. Mother watched them from the couch, knees held firmly in her arms, eyes marred by red lines and black bags. 

She and John spent the rest of the afternoon in their room, staring at the walls and avoiding the question still hanging in the air. When she could stand it no longer, she spoke. “Do you really think he was coming to get us?”

“Of course he was.” John frowned, crumbling a paper sitting on his desk.

“Is that a good thing?” Neither of them looked at Toby’s bed. The thin Cars blanket glared at them cruelly, Steve McQueen’s grin a mockery.

“How the hell am I supposed to answer that, Molly?” He leapt to his feet and headed towards the window. He paced until 3 o’clock, when Mary would be getting home from school.  
Then, John left her in her room alone. 

She could hear his crying through the window, the sound drowning out the music box and the soft comfort of Mary’s voice. Try as she might, she could not make herself cry or mourn. Her heart had settled into numbness and would not budge. Guilt simmered below the shock, waiting to attack the moment her emotions returned to working order.  
The next morning she was cleaning the glass fragments, wrinkling her nose at the sticky floor, when her mother handed her the phone.

“I need you to set it up. Just talk to the preacher, tell him what we need.”

Molly stared dumbly at Momma, processing the request through the sludge that had lodged itself in her brain. She handed back the phone.  
“No. Call him yourself.” Molly ignored the phone being pushed into her hand, the two of them silently struggling to force the call on the other. 

“It’s just a phone call, Molly. Just do it!” Momma shrieked, face red as she shoved her daughter back. 

Molly pushed back, forcing Momma down. The phone clattered across the floor and Momma’s face paled.

“I said no.” Her voice and hands trembled, but Momma didn’t speak. She walked away with the rag still wet and soapy on the kitchen floor. Momma made the funeral plans herself, and two days later, the family dressed in their finest and attended.

There was no wake. There was no viewing, no final goodbye. 

It seemed the next time Molly looked out to the world from her mind she was faced with a droning preacher and sallow-faced mourners. She forced herself to look to the simple caskets, one tiny and one large. The sight sat like a stone in her stomach, knotting up her throat until she thought she might vomit into the walkway. Flowers crowded the front. Classic funeral bouquets: lilies, obligatory heart wreath, hydrangeas. The floral smell sent another wave of nausea through her, followed by a flash of heat over her skin. She may never pick flowers again. 

Her mother’s shrill cries pierced through the haze of shock that had enveloped her for days. Whatever the preacher said was drowned out by the unending lamentations.   
“Oh, Lord Mercy, bring back my boy! Bring back my boy!” Momma’s whole body trembled in the pew in front of Molly, thin shoulders quaking against the smooth wood. “What are we gonna do? My baby, My Toby! He’s gone to the Lord, have mercy!” 

Molly watched the huddle of women crouched around her mother with overly sympathetic gazes and sweeping comforting touches. One older woman smoothed down her mother’s hair. As another loud sob wracked Momma’s body, Molly recognized the red-faced, quivering effects of withdrawal, disguised beneath the layers of grief. It was all too much. Molly glanced to John to see what he thought of the whole show. 

He sat beside the other men of the family, face ashen and eyes bleary. The men were staring at Momma’s show with open disgust. Molly couldn’t bring herself to be embarrassed. The other Hooper family members hadn’t been around for years, and she doubted they’d start checking in now. Whatever action or inaction they took would remain inconsequential.

She was surprised to see Sherlock sitting beside John, face solemn and eyes downcast. He passed one incredulous glance at Momma when the woman let out a particularly boisterous cry, but otherwise showed no hint of judgment.

As Amazing Grace warbled through church speakers, her breathing came in ragged pulls. She closed her eyes and, for the first time since the news, remembered the last time she saw Toby. His wide eyes burned in her memory, his faint cries echoing around the walls of her skull. 

She stumbled numbly to her feet, ignoring the whispered “Oh dear,” and “It’ll be ok, sweetie” that followed her hasty retreat from the too-small church and the too-loud woman. The door closed on the whispers behind her.

She forced calming breaths through her nose as she stepped outside, until she stopped gasping. Heat built in her cheeks and her hands were clammy, but she walked by the few cars with even steps. She passed wrought iron gates, small and speared at the top like in old movies. Gravestones, mostly simple and aged, rose from the ground in crumbling memorials. Names were carved against weathered stone. She read them all, lingering on the final years pecked on granite. 

She had just turned down the third row when she saw Sherlock leaning on the gate, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes soft. She glanced around for John, but didn’t find him lagging behind. Sherlock ambled towards her, eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“What are you doing out here?” He looked away from her, studying a tombstone she had stopped by. 

She didn’t answer.

“Are you ok?” His cheeks flushed, and he thinned his lips. “Clearly not. Sorry, stupid question.”

“Not a stupid question. Most people don’t know what to say to me.” She fiddled with the ribbon on her dress and continued walking. “You’re right. I’m not ok.”

They continued walking through the cemetery, occasionally stopping so Sherlock could note unusual names or dates. They didn’t speak until they approached the final row, a crumbling mess of weeds and stones with no names.

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if to steel himself. When he spoke, his voice was careful. “My real name is William. Billy for short.” He fidgeted, but held eye contact with her.   
“Um, okay?” She blinked at him, surprised at his outburst. “Why do you call yourself Sherlock then?” 

His face eased, shoulders falling. “It’s my middle name. I decided I needed a change, and Sherlock was just strange enough to fit.”  
Molly tilted her head up at him. “William Sherlock Holmes.” 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. My mother was a sucker for middle names, it seems.” He gave her a nervous smile, and she giggled despite herself. 

“Why didn’t you go with Scott? If you just wanted a new name, that one would have worked.” His smile fell.

“Billy awkwardly tried to fit in with everybody, with no real success. I figured Sherlock was odd enough to suit an improbably odd boy.” He draped an arm across her shoulders, leaning his forehead against the top of her head. “This may surprise you, but I’m rubbish at socializing.”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes against the wave of grief that washed over her at his touch. “You can’t be that bad. You’ve got John.” Her voice shook and broke.

“I tried for you.” The words were whispered against her hair, and she was certain she wasn’t supposed to hear it. “Molly Hooper, why are you the only person on this earth that wants to be seen?”

Hot tears slid down her cheeks, her lips curling back in a strangled sob. His other arm circled her, and she cried into his stiff white shirt. He ran his fingers through her hair, but gave no comforting coos. He allowed her to empty her grief onto his chest without patronizing her with overused phrases. 

They stood like that until a horrified screech sounded across the tombstones. Within seconds her mother was dragging Sherlock away by the forearm, her face red and her eyes narrowed into slits.  
She returned for Molly, disgust painted in broad strokes over her running make-up. Molly knew the fingertips digging into her arm would leave bruises, but she bit back any pain. 

“Have you no respect? This ain’t no whorehouse now, this is a funeral! Keep your wiles to yourself! Your Daddy would’ve been ashamed of you, traipsing around like a harlot.” The barrage continued in hissed insults all the way to the fold-out chairs circling the newly dug holes. Sherlock was nowhere to be found as the coffins were lowered. Molly wiped her eyes, bidding farewell to the little blond boy who had brightened her days, and to the father who’d offered her a chance of escape.

They returned home in the evening and Molly locked herself in her room. John disappeared immediately to Mary’s, without even bothering to come inside.

She pulled her thin covers over her head and rolled onto her side, burying her face into her pillow and falling slowly into warped dreams of twisting metal and squealing tires and blond boys crying in the backseat. She slept for an hour before she was startled awake by a knock on her window. She sat up quickly, expecting to see John outside. Sherlock crouched there instead, cigarette between his lips and hands pointing expectantly at the window.

She opened it, listening carefully for her mother’s footsteps. Without alcohol to keep her restrained, her mother’s anger was more dangerous than usual. She managed to push it up halfway before he climbed through, cigarette held on the other side of the glass.

She wiped at the dried make up at her eyes. “John’s not here. He’s at Mary’s.”

“Yes, well, he wasn’t happy when I got caught with you in the cemetery.” Sherlock slumped back against the wall, watching the orange burn further up his cigarette. He was still wearing the white shirt and black slacks from the funeral, but his hair was wild and his shirt was untucked.

“If you’re not here for John, what are you doing here?” She curled her knees under her chin. His shoulders twitched into a shrug, his eyes sliding coolly over to her.

“How are you doing?” His gaze was glued to her mouth. She started to speak before he held up his free hand. “Don’t say you’re good now, because we both know that’s not true.” 

She thought for a minute, burying her face into her arms. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course. That’s fine.” They sat in silence, Sherlock stretching his legs out on her bed.

She thought she might fall asleep again, when Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I mentioned before I’m not very good at socializing.” 

Molly nodded. The bed shifted as Sherlock moved towards her, nudging her over until he sat beside her, their arms pressed together in the small space.

“What are you doing?” The bed was too small for her to move away without falling.

“I’m sorry if I messed up earlier.” His jaw twitched, his face kept forward. “I didn’t think of how your mother would react.”

“It’s fine. She’s just emotional.” Molly placed a hand against his, her heart thumping against her chest. “Thank you for sharing your real name with me.” He looked at her with surprise. She offered a hesitant smile.

“I would wager she’s difficult to handle even when she’s not been away from the drink.” He spoke quickly, then winced.   
She dropped her hand from his, hiding her face again. “Did John tell you?”

“No, of course not. I managed to gather as much from the amount of alcohol in your cupboards and your mother’s gait and slurring. Highly unlikely she’s got a speech impediment and a penchant for spiked orange juice.” He stopped, abruptly. “Oh God, I’m doing it again.” He ran his hand over his face and took a deep breath.

“It’s fine. I mean, I guess it was obvious.” 

“No.” His tone was sharp. His head thunked against the wall, and Molly flinched at the noise. Luckily, no shuffling footsteps echoed down the hallway. 

“What do you mean no?” He hadn’t just guessed. She hadn’t thought he’d been by enough to know with such certainty how her mother was.

“This is just what I do. I see everything. Most people hate it.” He gave her a sideways glance, lips thinned. He shook his head. “That’s not why I’m here. I didn’t show up to talk about me.”  
“Why did you show up?” She gave in to her exhaustion and rested her head against his shoulder. He stiffened for a moment, but didn’t move away.

“I knew John would run to Mary’s and that your mother would be less than supportive. That was clear from the funeral. I assumed you would need company and reassurance. Since you’ve not been back at school and none of your other friends know where you live, much less what has transpired in the last week, I knew that duty, if it was to fall on any one, would rest with me.” He finished his longwinded explanation by shifting his arm around her and moving her head to his chest. “So, what do you need?”

“What?” She stifled a yawn, wiping away the wetness gathering at her eyes.

“What do you need me to do?” He said the words into her hair, fingertips running over the bruises on her arms.

“Talk to me about anything besides my family.” She felt more than saw him smile.

“Did John ever tell you about my old dog?”

“Hm. I think he said you named it Redbeard.” Her lids drooped. She could hear Sherlock’s heart speeding in his chest. “What kind of dog is he?”  
“An Irish Setter. Best friend a boy could have.”

“Why Redbeard?” Molly smiled, imagining a younger Sherlock playing in a yard with a small puppy.

“I named him after a pirate. At the time, I was quite obsessed. I tend to be that way. I’m hooked the minute I take an interest.” She closed her eyes, curling into his chest.

She fell asleep as he murmured facts about pirates and Barbarossa. She dreamed tales of stormy skies and handsome pirates with dark curls and blue eyes and a strange, quirked smile. She awoke alone, John’s snores tearing through her sleepiness. She wondered if Sherlock had really come at all, or if she’d imagined the whole thing, until she caught sight of his cigarette stub on the window sill. She threw it away, noting that he’d managed to make the whole room smell of tobacco.

For two weeks, she avoided leaving the house. She didn’t bother finding out what she’d missed at school or if anyone was asking where she’d gone. No one else showed up to check on them. She survived on bread and casseroles from Mrs. Morstan, and spent hours of her day in a timeless daze. Her mother hardly left her room, pajamas ragged and hair in greasy knots. She emerged only to steal a small plate of food or drink half of a glass of water. 

Molly worried when her mother’s room grew too quiet. She worried when she could hear her mother’s smashing and screaming and moaning, growing less and less frequent as the days wore on.

The room had been silent for two days when she woke up to sounds from the kitchen. There were no soap operas or Bon Jovi, just the sound of someone clinking through the dishes.

She was surprised to come face to face with Momma, dressed impeccably in an old 80s style woman’s suit. She looked younger than she had in years, with long hair twisted into a French knot and her make up done in natural tones. Her eyes were watery and her lips twitched, but she was clearly trying. Her hands were trembling as she put a plate into the cupboard. 

“Where are you going?” Molly winced. The words came out like an accusation. Instead of exploding with the anger she’d expected, Molly’s mother crumbled.

Perhaps they were the first real tears Molly had witnessed from her mother in years. She stepped forward, placing a hesitant hug around Momma’s slender form. Her own tears fell, and the two of them wept for a shared loss for a few minutes before Momma stepped away.

“How do I look?” She wiped at the bit of mascara that had started to run and then smoothed down the skirt of her suit. “Do I look ready to work?”

“What are you doing Momma?” Molly shrunk away from the new woman, lip worrying between her teeth. “Are you ready for this?”

“Your Daddy wasn’t lying. There ain’t no money. Not a penny in the bank. We didn’t even pay for the funeral.” Momma looked down, rubbing the smudged mascara under her eyes. The tender moment disintegrated, her mother turning icy again.

“Oh.” Molly closed her eyes against the panic washing over her skin. “No choices then.”

“Afraid not, dear.” Momma sniffled and looked away. “The family wasn’t much help either.” 

Molly looked over Momma’s navy blue pencil skirt and nude pumps, noting how she had used her one good pair of hose for the occasion. “You look wonderful, Momma.” She forced a smile.

“Come on now, I’ll be late.” Momma walked out the door, her steps slightly unsteady.

The click of heels echoed for each step her mother took down the hall. When she was sure Momma wouldn’t return, she threw away the Count Chocula cereal and all the little cars scattered around the house. Bit by bit, she put away the pain hiding inside toy-boxes and Cars comforters and baseball covered pajamas. By the time Molly was done all signs of Toby would be gone.


	4. An Old Friend Visits

“Well look who it is!” 

John heard the voice calling over the crowd. He stopped his marching down cluttered city streets to search for the source, finding no one until he turned to continue his aimless wandering. His forehead nearly crashed with dark hair and darker eyes, Jim’s smile shockingly close. The tall man was impeccably dressed, his hair slicked back and his shoes oiled. 

“Oh, uh, hi.” John held out his hand awkwardly. “What’s it been? Two, three—”

“Oh dear, you’ve forgotten who I am.” Jim’s mouth dropped in mock hurt, a grin quickly splitting to reveal shiny white teeth. With an exaggerated wink, he swung his arm around John’s shoulder. “Sherlock says you’re looking for a job. Can I be of assistance here?”

John wrinkled his brow in confusion, looking over Jim’s tailored black suit. “Where on earth do you work to afford that getup? And how do you know Sherlock?”

“Why, you introduced us, Johnny boy, don’t you remember?” Jim patted his chest, steering him around a corner. “You brought him to my house. We’ve been good buddies since.”

“And he sent you after me for a job? I’ve not seen you around the apartment.” John quirked his lip at the thought. “Excuse me, but where do you work again?”

“I work at La Mela just down the way here. Middle of the street, can’t miss it. Prettiest girls in town right out the door, there.” Jim pointed a long finger towards impossibly tall, swinging hipped women. They were waving in men whose eyes barely budged from the low-cut apple-dotted apron and tiny skirts they wore, the trays in their hands balancing bright red and green shots. 

“You work at a bar? And you can afford that?” John looked back over the suit, probably some expensive brand he wouldn’t know the name of.

“Well, it’s not your average working man’s watering hole. Our customers tend to be a little looser with the green, with a good deal more to pull from, if you catch my meaning?”  
John raised an eyebrow. “No, not really.”

“Only the richest of rich can afford La Mela, Johnny boy.” Jim patted him on the back, corralling him past the giggling women and through the swinging glass doors. 

Everything was dim, the music a low thrum of lazy energy and the shadowed faces of waiters appearing and disappearing without intrusion. Smoke slithered through the air in a suffocating cloud of tobacco and something sickly sweet just underneath. The thick air made his head spin. Bottles glittered in beautiful shapes and soft colors behind the bar, the mirror backdrop making them seem to go on forever. John swung his head around to look for Jim and found him still standing behind him, one hand lightly on his shoulder.

“You could work here and make good tips. We have all kinds of opportunities available for a man as capable as the infamous John Hooper.” Jim grinned and plucked a drink from a passing tray, taking a long and slow sip from a crystal glass, his eyes connected to John’s.

“Aren’t you working or something?” John blinked slowly, clearing the sleepy haze the thick fog left in his mind. “And what do you mean infamous? What has Sherlock been saying about me?”

“Oh, he does blather on once his defenses are down. He’s told me all about your little adventures, and your vital role in all his heroics. I could certainly use a man with such discreet capabilities in my line of work.”

“What exactly is that line of work again? Do you own this place?” John looked at the other servers. Jim was certainly the most dressed.

“Oh heavens no. No, no, no. I work behind the bar.” Jim waved at the gruff man behind the counter counting out change, who only scowled and lowered his head. “I give medicine to all the weary wanderers of the world.”

John’s stomach rolled. He took a step back, forcing a tight smile. “I’m not in the business of medicine, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, of course! Alcohol isn’t for everyone.” Jim gave another wink.

Before John realized what he was doing Jim led him back to the street. The sun was too bright and the people were too loud, after the quiet, smothering darkness of La Mela. He waited for Jim to excuse himself or depart, but instead John found himself being led along again. This time they moved in the direction of his and Sherlock’s apartment, though he couldn’t remember Jim ever being in the building.

“So, if you won’t take this job, what would you like to do? I have several contacts. I can get you most any job in the city you’d like, for the right price.” He let out a sharp laugh. John shifted away from the hands leading him towards his own home. 

“Price? I didn’t ask for your help. I haven’t seen you in four years, now. There’s no reason for you to help me.” John sniffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I don’t need no favors anyhow. I’m thinking I’ll just join up in the Army and get myself along on that. They’ll pay for most any education I need.”

“All those faraway places? Nowhere near dear Molly, or Momma or Sherlock? Won’t they all miss you now?” Jim swept ahead, cutting the way to his building through the crowd to hold open the door for him. 

John harrumphed. “I don’t think they’ll be bothered by a couple of years away.”

“Oh, now, that’s not true. Is it?” Jim stuck his lip out, hopping up the steps two at a time. “I think Billy would miss you most of all.”

“Billy? You know, I rightly don’t give a—” His door swung open, and there stood Molly with her foot tapping impatiently against his wood floors. “Shit.”

“Are you serious, John? Where were you today?” Her voice was tight, her eyes red and her hands shaking.

He ducked his head, avoiding her piercing glare. “I went out to find a job, Molly. Honest, I just went to check out a few places.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” She gave a sharp, dry laugh, her arms swinging out in frustration. “You always seem to magically realize you need a job on Tuesdays. Strange, that.” Her voice grew shrill, broken by sniffling as she wiped tears from her eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Molly. Really I am. I forgot is all.” He glanced up to see her lips pursed and tears tracking silently down her cheeks.

“You forget every time you’re supposed to watch her. I can’t take care of her by myself, John. She’s getting worse and I can’t take it. I just need a break.” She crossed her arms over her chest, cheeks burning red as she finally took notice of the stranger in the room. She glanced away, shrinking into embarrassment. “Can’t you come take care of her tonight? Please? I’ve got a big test tomorrow. I need to study, and you know how she gets.”

“Look, Molly. I don’t have time to watch her tonight. Mary has some sushi place she wanted to try out. Besides, you know Momma prefers having you around.” He took a deep breath and flashed her a big smile. “Come on, I’ll take care of her Friday. You can take a day for yourself, maybe go out with some friends? Give the studying a break for a change?”

Molly bit her lip. Her quick, agitated movements slowed down while she mulled over what he said. By the time she moved on to twiddling with her bracelet, he knew he’d won. "Ok.”

“Thanks, Molly. You’re the best.” He ruffled her hair, flopping down on his couch and flipping through the channels. “Jim, you can sit down while you wait on Sherlock. Or whatever you’re doing.”

“John, you have to promise you’ll be there Friday.” Molly spoke from her spot in the middle of his living room.

“Yeah, of course.” He leaned back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head.

“JOHN.” His name cut across the sound of the television, snapping his attention back to her. “I mean it. You have to promise me you’ll be there.”

“Of course I’ll be there. I promise, Molly.” He grinned at her. He noticed Jim standing by the door, eyes glued to his sister. “Go on, now. I’ll see you.”

“Ok. I’ll see you Friday then.” She started to head out the door, only to be stopped by a hand at her elbow.

“You’re Molly Hooper? Lord Mercy, how the awkward have grown.” His eyes swept over her baggy sweater and ponytail, pausing to slide over her jawline and pointed lips. “You’ve got a new look, haven’t you?”

“U-um, no. N-not really.” She smoothed her hands carefully over her sweater. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Why, I’m hurt! The Hoopers are not an observant lot, are you?” His fingers slid down her arm to grip one of her hands and lift it to his lips. “James Moriarty, but you can call me Jim.”

Molly’s blush deepened. “Oh. Oh yeah, I remember you now.” 

“Last time we met you were a scared little thing. Not much change there, is there?” He tipped her face up, fingertips giving a gentle pressure to lift her eyes to his. “Everything else has though. Look at that skin. And that figure!” His other hand lifted her arm away from her body.

“Ever the charmer, aren’t we?” Sherlock stood in the doorway, blue eyes resting lazily on Jim’s still hovering hands. Molly jerked her chin away, eyes averted to the floor.  
“I was just admiring your pretty friend.” 

“Of course you were.” Large sweatpants and a dirty hoodie replaced the fine suit in her field of vision, and she nearly took a step back as Sherlock brushed against her. She forced herself to look up into stormy eyes before he stepped around her and disappeared down the hallway.

“Well, that was a bit awkward, wasn’t it?” Jim looked her over and tilted his head, mouth dropping open in disbelief. “Oh, Lord, did that finally happen? Are you two finally doing the horizontal tango?” He gave her a thumbs up, nodding with a grin on his face. “Nice, lovely. I knew it was going to happen. Sherlock hasn’t mentioned you though. Why’s he keeping you secret?”

“Oh, no! We d-don’t—I mean, he wouldn’t. Not with me.” She looked down again, twisting the bracelet at her wrist nervously.

“But you would with him?”

“We’re not like that. He’s just… We’re just friends. I experiment with him.” Her eyes widened, and she shook her head fiercely. “No, no. I mean, he tutors me in history, is all. And we- we just do chemistry.” She paused, a nervous smile twitching across her cheeks. “I mean, you know, chemistry experiments. For class.”

“So you’re not …” he swung his hips around, arms up like he was holding a woman. “No smooching when John’s not looking?”

“No. No! Of course not. I’m his best friend’s sister.” She walked further into the apartment, kicking her shoes off. John gave a huff and glared at her while she invaded his couch. 

“Well, I’ve no such qualms. Still, Sherlock’s experiments are rather personal. Are you sure he’s not nursing some Molly love?” Jim wiggled his eyebrows at her, prompting a small giggle. 

“I’m certain of it. He hardly talks to me much, outside of class.” She flashed a big grin at John. “Or when he and John need a diversion for some trouble they’ve managed to find. It’s no wonder you can’t get a job, John.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll have you know, a lot of that trouble pays good money.”

“I don’t think pays is the word, John. People usually know when they’ve paid someone.” Molly grinned at him.

“I only take from bad men. Not like they ever notice.” He laughed, kicking his feet back up between them. “It’s how I’ve managed this long.”

“Well, I wish I’d get some of that money every now and then. I’ve earned it. I don’t know why you can’t just take Mary on your little adventures.” Molly shuffled away from Jim.

“What kind of diversions do you provide? Surely you get some compensation for your part in the plan?” Jim said, incredulous.

“Oh, no, it’s no big deal. I’ll just pretend I’ve lost a dog, or dress up and knock into someone. Nothing ever too terribly difficult.” Molly laughed it off. “I’m sure Mary would be better at it, to be honest. I’m always shy and stammering.”

“She is, but she’s not always available. Besides, John doesn’t like putting her in danger.” Sherlock stepped out from the hallway, showered and changed. His curls dripped a dark, wet stain onto his shirt. He flopped onto the couch, narrowly avoiding Jim, arms slung onto the back of the couch. He leaned his head back, and turned his head to her. “You’re wearing that ridiculous sweater again. You wear that sweater only when something bad has happened. What is it, what’s the matter?”

“It’s not ridiculous.” She fiddled with her bracelet again, eyes holding steady contact with his. Jim glanced between the two of them, a slow smile creeping across his face.

“Molly Hooper.” He face her with wide eyes, hand clutching hers where it still held her bracelet. “Go out with me Friday. I’ll take you to the Theatre, and to dinner.” 

She nibbled her lip, glancing quickly at Sherlock. He stared at her through narrowed lids, mouth set in a thin line. Jim stared at her hand still clasping hers. He stuck out his lip in a pout, eyes going wide like a puppy’s. “Oh, come now Molly. Just one date, and if you don’t love it you don’t have to bother with me again.”

She looked around, wondering if anyone was going to raise any objections. John looked as if he were trying to murder Jim with his eyes, but didn’t say anything. She looked one more time at Sherlock and found he had closed his eyes and was rubbing small circles on his temple. 

“Come on, Molly. Don’t tell me you have to get Big Brother’s permission. I know you don’t have plans.” 

She blushed and pulled her hand away from his grasp. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I can’t imagine it’ll hurt to get out of the house.” 

“It’s a date then.” He leapt up, waving enthusiastically first to Sherlock and then to John. “Dress your best, Molly. I’ll be by to pick you up at seven Friday night.” He practically skipped from the apartment, turning to wave at her one last time before disappearing behind the thunking door.

“What was he on about? Sherlock, I thought he was coming to visit you? He didn’t even say anything to you.” John grumbled, eyebrows pulled together in irritation.

“Hm.” Sherlock lifted his head and turned to Molly. He looked far away, his eyes watching her without seeming to see anything at all. He turned away again, dropping his head back on his ratty couch. “Yes, he did. He practically wrote a book. Did you see it?”

“A book? What are you talking about? He barely looked at you. And what are you doing telling people I’m looking for a job?” John turned his irritation towards the television, flipping through the channels rapidly before tossing the remote onto the coffee table. It slid across the glass and thumped onto the floor at Molly’s feet.

“You are looking for a job.” Sherlock didn’t even bother to move his head again. 

“Yes, well, you don’t have to go talking about me to strangers. I can handle my own.”

“Do you have a job?” Sherlock smirked.

“No.” John scowled, slumping in his chair. “Doesn’t mean you have to go asking strangers for favors.”

Sherlock shot up, ignoring John’s muttering. “Why are you wearing that hideous sweater? You wear it only when you’ve got bruises, but you weren’t flinching when he was touching you. It’s unlikely you’ve rid yourself of the habit of fear, so why then the contradictory signals?”

Molly frowned and stood up, moving towards the door. “You know, I just realized Momma needs me at home. I better get back.”

Sherlock jumped up beside her, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose while he swayed. He balanced himself and shot her a look. “Sat up too quickly. I’ll come with you.”  
“Momma doesn’t like boys at the house.” John interjected from his spot on the couch.

“She won’t know I’m there. Besides, don’t you have that dinner thing with Mary?”

“That’s not for another hour. And I don’t exactly like the thought of you skulking around my mother’s house like some hormonal teenager.”

“I’m a grown man, hardly hormonal, and certainly not intimidated or bothered by what you think.” Sherlock watched Molly, pupils contracted as his eyes studied her sweater. She furrowed her brow at his attention, fidgeting when his gaze lingered too long. Finally, he looked back up to her face, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What do you think, Molly?”

“Fine. Come on. But if she catches you, I’m not keeping her from calling the cops.” She poked him, but he didn’t laugh at her, just continued to stare at her with a frown.

“Oi, why do you do that?” Why don’t you just talk to people like normal?” John shuddered and turned away with an exasperated sigh. “You’re creeping me out staring at her like that. Stop it.” 

“You didn’t care when Jim was practically hanging all over her.” Sherlock spat over his shoulder, grabbing his coat as he headed towards the door.

“He was not,” Molly hissed, crossing her arms across her chest.

“He might as well have been.” Sherlock sneered, imitating Jim in a mocking tone. “Oh Molly, let’s go to the theatre.”

“Why do you care anyway?” She shot back at him, expecting to hear some excuse about protecting his best friend’s sister from nefarious advances. She was surprised when Sherlock stopped, head tilted to the side as he stared at her with both eyebrows raised.

“You two really are certainly related. Neither of you see anything at all.” He continued past her, halfway down the hallway before she caught up to him.

“What do you mean?” She spoke to his back as he sped away from her again.

He ignored her question, not even glancing back at her as he exited the building. Within minutes he was lost in the crowd, and she was left to walk home on her own.

By the time she made it up the stairs she could already hear her mother’s afternoon Guns ‘n Roses blaring through the hallway. She stepped in, immediately turning the volume down and searching for the source of the continued screeching. She barely caught the words to Sweet Child O’ Mine, the lyrics garbled and broken, from the back room.

“Momma? What are you doing? You know you can’t play your music that loud.” She pushed open Momma’s door only to find her holding two dresses, one pressed against her chest. Her lips were bright red, eyes lined in blue and hair pulled back. A glass sat on her dresser, something brightly colored and icy half gone inside it. “Please tell me you didn’t dress this way for your job interview.”

“What do you think dear? A bit much?” Momma ignored her as she switched dresses, holding black sequins to her body with a coy look into the mirror. With a shake of her head she tossed the dress onto the bed and started stripping off a too small t-shirt.

“Is that mine?” Molly picked up the shirt tossed at her feet. Cherries and hearts dotted the once white fabric, slashes of blue and blobs of yellow staining the torso. “Why were you painting in my shirt?”

“I had to finish up a piece. Besides, you weren’t wearing it.” Momma twirled in her dress, tugging the neckline up.

“Yes, well, imagine that. I generally can’t wear all my clothes at once.” Molly sighed and dropped the shirt onto the other pile of her clothing her mom had ruined. “What are you getting ready for?”

“Don’t you mean who? I met a man today while you were out. He wants to take me to dinner. He’s a nice Policeman. I always did like a man in uniform.” Momma gave Molly a sly wink, touching up on the bits of smudges on her mascara.

“I’m sure he’s lovely. Is this dinner tonight?” Her mother nodded. “So what, a drink for courage?” Molly picked up the melting slush, taking a quick whiff. Not surprisingly, she caught rum and fruit juice. 

“No, a drink to loosen up the old tongue. It’s been a bit since I’ve gone out, you know.” Momma snatched the drink back, taking a large sip. “Now hush up and help me pick out my shoes.”

“No. I’ve got studying to do. Momma, don’t drink anymore before you go out. You’ll embarrass yourself.” Molly sighed when Momma waved her off. “And remember, you’ve an interview tomorrow. Don’t stay out too late.”

She closed her eyes as she walked to her room. She could still hear her mother’s singing when she closed the door. She fell onto the bed with a groan, reveling in the soft coolness of her covers. 

“Your mother has a lovely singing voice.”

She jumped up with a scream, her heart drumming loudly in her ears. She’d barely caught sight of Sherlock holding his finger to his lips when she realized her mother had stopped singing.

“Molly, dear, what happened?” She caught her mother’s suspicion from the other side of the door. Sherlock blocked the entrance, foot held against the door and hands hovering over the knob.

“Nothing, Momma. Just saw a spider is all.” Molly pressed her hand against her chest, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She waited to speak again until her mother was back to singing, and the shadow of her feet had moved on from her doorframe.

“A spider?” Sherlock hissed at her, locking the door carefully.

“Well, what else was I going to say? Besides, why did you hide? You could have not hidden in my room!”

“Where else was I going to hide?” He smirked at her, curling himself onto her bean bag and picking at the stray strings in the seams.

“How about not hiding at all? And stop doing that. You’ll mess it up and then John will never let me live it down.” She swatted at his hand, picking up his coat and resting it on her desk. 

“He shouldn’t have gotten you a present for a twelve year old then.” Sherlock grinned, pulling at another string.

“I like it. It adds color to the room.”

“It’s pink. You’d have much rather red. Or yellow.” He pointed to her bright yellow comforter.

“Well, you’re just the expert then, aren’t you?” She narrowed her eyes and crossed her legs, spreading out her books on her floor. She started flipping through her World History textbook, searching for the latest highlighted page. She waited for the comeback, but it never came. Instead, she looked up to see Sherlock staring at her again, frown set deeply into his face.

“Take off your sweater.” 

“What?” Her mouth went dry, her arms crossing over her chest before she caught herself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do you honestly think I’m going to do anything? I know you’re wearing a shirt under there, you always do. Take off the sweater.” He paused, cutting his eyes at her and putting on a determined expression. “Please.”

“Why?” She rolled her bracelet between her fingers, biting her lip and staring at her history book.

“Are there more?” The harshness of his voice faded.

“More what?” She didn’t look at him, even as she heard him move off the bean bag and cross the floor. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” He spoke, his knees poking into her peripheral vision. “But if you change your mind, I’d like to see the bruises. I’ve been tracking the severity of mistreatment over the years and have projected another escalation of violence within the next month or so. She’s been through three cycles this year, and is nearing the eruption stage. Based on her be—”

“Dear Lord, Sherlock, if I show you the bruises will you stop talking about me like a test subject?” He nodded solemnly, sitting back on his heels.

She pulled off the sweater, careful to keep it from the tender flesh at her back and sides. She schooled her face into apathy and sat, perfectly still, as he looked her over.  
The bruises on her arms were minimal. Momma mostly limited herself to minor visible injuries, preferring to reserve the true evidence of her anger to the spaces always covered by shirts and sweaters.

“Is that all of them?” She said nothing, knowing no answer was answer enough. He nodded at her and moved closer, eyes skimming over the purpled fingerprints on her skin. “Can I see the others?”

“They’re… They’re under the shirt.” She bit her lip again, rubbing her hands against her arms. 

“You don’t have to remove the shirt. You can just point me to where they are.” He stilled her hands. “I won’t look any more than I have to for studying the bruising.”

She nodded, closing her eyes and pointing to a particularly bad one on her side. His fingers slid beneath the thin fabric of her shirt and lifted it only to the edge of the bruising. Gentle hands positioned her under the bedroom light, tracing over the edges of red and purple and black. 

He muttered under his breath about bruise size and color. “Sure to at least triple in diameter, spanning the right side of the rib cage.” He pulled the shirt back down, waiting for her instruction. She pointed to a spot on her back, wincing when he dragged the fabric over the sore knot. 

“Hm.” His fingers traced this one as well, cool tips pressing painfully against the tender middle of the bruise. “So, she began her assault after you pulled away from her grip and attempted to stand up to her intimidation. You turned, resulting in first bruise one your side, and then the last one on your back. Your immobility allowed the second blow to land much more forcefully than the first, resulting in a darker, larger bruise. Both are significantly sized, implying that the first one is the result of impressive force applied.”  
Her head hung as she listened to his break down of her marks. She said nothing when he was finished, refusing to look at him. She held in tears, her throat tied in knots. She couldn’t have spoken if she’d wanted to.

“This is why you showed up at the apartment earlier with grievances. John’s turn was today, and since he didn’t show up, you were forced to endure your mother’s mood. What happened?” The question came out sharp and angry. She took in a shaky breath.

“Nothing really. She was supposed to go to an interview today while I was at school. When I came home she was still in pajamas, still asleep on the couch. Said that she didn’t feel up to talking to anyone today. I got mad, and she got mad. We argued a bit, and she threw a couple of things. Really, she didn’t mean to hit me.”

“No? Those are awfully big for an accident.” He let out an exaggerated sigh, finally prompting her to look up to him. He didn’t appear embarrassed or angry. Instead his blue and gold eyes studied her with something unreadable, his lips tugged down as he ran his hand through his hair. “Why don’t you leave her here? Why don’t you tell her to fuck off?”

“Sherlock, you know I can’t do that. She’d die here if I couldn’t take care of her. She doesn’t know how to do anything for herself.” She set her mouth in a determined line, staring him down.

“Why is that your responsibility? Why does any of that excuse all this?” He motioned to her torso.

“I can’t just leave her. She doesn’t have anyone else.” Molly fiddled with her bracelet again. 

“It’s not your job to make sure she lives.” Sherlock’s voice grew louder. “I thought you wanted away from all this?” 

“Are you seriously suggesting I just let my mother die? That I just abandon her?” Molly scrambled to her feet, crossing the room to sit on her bed in the corner farthest from him.

“I’m seriously suggesting that you take care of yourself before she kills you.” He paced around the room, steps quick. His face reddened. “You can’t excuse her forever.”

“Sherlock, these last few years have been tough. She can’t keep a job, and this time of year is especially bad. You know—”

“Molly, don’t you hear yourself? She was like this long before your dad died. You’ve gone through everything she has. When do you get a break?” He was practically yelling now, and Molly was glad that her mother had a date. The woman was likely already gone.

“Why do you care all of the sudden? You think you can just come in and tell me what to do?” She defended herself from her corner. She barely resisted the urge to bury her head in her knees.

“Be reasonable, Molly.” He calmed suddenly, crossing the room to sit beside her.

“You think it’s as easy as just being reasonable? You think it’s as simple as leaving? You can tell me a thousand inane facts, but you can’t see for a second from my eyes. She’s my Momma, Sherlock. I can’t just abandon her.” Unbidden tears welled again, and she wiped furiously at them. “You think you’re helping but you can be so awful sometimes.”

He growled in frustration, flinging himself back onto her brightly colored comforter. “This is really not my area.” 

“No, really. It’s not.” She sniffled, stretching across him to retrieve her history book. “You can’t just go off on me like that. It’s my life and if I choose to stay, then that’s my choice.”

He stopped her with a touch to her shoulder. She turned to him, expecting some defense. Instead she felt lips pressed against her forehead, her eyes level with his chest. The smell of tobacco swelled beneath her nose, his lips warm and lingering against her skin. He pulled away slowly, locking his eyes to hers until she looked away, a blush staining her cheeks.

“Molly Hooper, you deserve to be happy. If you need anything, John and I are near. Be careful.”

He slipped out the door quickly, leaving her with her textbook in her lap. Too many thoughts warred in her head for her to concentrate on the words in front of her. One thought repeated in her buzzing mind.

He was right, but it hardly mattered. Momma wouldn’t let her leave. Even if she could, Molly didn’t have anywhere to go. Not until she was out of college, armed with a degree and a career.

She was stuck here, as she always had been.


	5. A Date at the Theatre

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t give you free cake.” Molly squirmed, wiping her hands on her apron and trying to shuffle away from the large man. His bearded face turned a sickly purple color. Molly fidgeted under his glare. “Really, sir. I’m sorry. But you finished your food, and I really don’t have any reason to discount the cake.”

“I want to talk to your manager.” He ground out the words between teeth, a vein pulsing on his head. “I can’t believe this shit. Everywhere gives free birthday cake. Everywhere. Bring your manager over.”

Molly jumped when he slammed his hand on his table, and scurried off to find her boss. After searching the kitchen and the freezer, she slid out back to find the old woman slumped on the railing, a cigarette curling smoke into the alleyway. Her perpetual frown and defensive stature stiffened when she saw Molly.

“Whaddya want? You been alone half a minute and you’re already bugging me. Don’t you all realize I got no time for your complaints?” She crushed her cigarette on the rail and flicked it to the asphalt. Molly waited until she looked in her direction again. “Well, I don’t have all day. Whaddya want?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Arnold. A customer is complaining. I tried explaining about our policy against giving free food, but he insists it’s his birthday. He claims someone told him we give out free cake for celebrations.”

The older woman scoffed, jerking open the door with one wobbling arm. “Yeah, if you’re three and snot-nosed. What’s a grown man want a birthday cake for?” The woman pushed through, parting the other wait-staff easily. “Which table?”

“Table twelve.” Molly glanced warily to the fidgeting man, his large purpled face still scrunched in a scowl. “He’s getting pretty loud.”

Miss Arnold’s eyes softened when she looked back at Molly’s frown and nervous scuffling. She placed a hand against Molly’s shoulder, beaming a kind smile. “Go on and start wrapping your silverware. I’ll handle the Big Baby.” 

Molly nodded, relieved. Fifteen minutes and one hundred rolled forks later, her last customer was stomping his way out of the diner without cake. Not surprisingly, he’d not left a tip. Molly approached Miss Arnold as the woman headed back to the kitchen. Her cigarette was hanging out of her mouth again, squinty eyes sweeping over the tables in a silent challenge to any other complaints. Molly took a deep breath as she came directly behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

Miss Arnold jumped, turning back to Molly with annoyance. “Whaddya want now? I just dealt with your customer, now go roll up your silverware and get gone.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s just… I wanted to remind you about Friday. I’m not going to be here. Meena’s filling in for me instead.” Molly looked down at her feet, studying the creases in her worn shoes while she waited for Miss Arnold’s response.

“That’s right. Mousy Molly’s got some kinda date, don’ she?” Miss Arnold laughed, clapping her on the back. “Our little gals gonna get herself some man.” 

Molly cringed, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She turned away without saying anything, hurrying to the table where she finished her tub of silverware. After cleaning the tables and mopping the floor, she nearly ran from the diner, tugging her apron off behind her.

By the time she’d reached home her mother was fast asleep, feet propped on the arm of their sagging couch, magazines stacked haphazardly under her hand. Molly crept through the darkened living room to slip into the bathroom, quickly stripping off her work clothes. She stood under the hot water until she couldn’t smell greasy fries and burgers, running honey-scented body wash over every aching muscle. She finished, wrapping herself into her softest robe and tugging on her fluffiest slippers. 

She had only just laid in bed, sinking into the cool covers and soft pillow, when she heard a tap on her window. With a startled shout and a quick survey, she caught sight of the shadowy figure outside. For a brief moment, she imagined it was Sherlock, come to convince her to leave again. Or to warn her to be careful.

Instead, when her eyes adjusted, she found Mary grinning at her beyond the frosted glass. She sighed, flopping back on her bed for a moment before sitting up again to let her long-time friend in.

“Don’t you realize you can’t just pop up like that? You have to warn me!” Molly hissed at Mary as the woman stumbled in. 

“I tried to text you! You never answered me. Besides, you should’ve known I’d have to come over here. I heard you finally hitched yourself up with Sherlock!” Mary bundled up under Molly’s warm covers. “How’d you do it?”

Molly rolled her eyes, wrapping her arms over her legs to rest her head on her knees. “I did not ‘hitch myself up’ with anyone. And definitely not Sherlock.” Molly frowned, digging the toe of her slipper into her mattress. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” At Molly’s oblivious stare, Mary’s grin faded. “You’re serious? You two can be so dense.”

“Dense? Excuse me?” Molly scowled. 

Mary waved away her irritation with a mittened hand, picking at the strings on her cover. “So, if it’s not Sherlock, then who is it then? John just said he had to babysit for your Friday cause you had a date. He seemed agitated about the whole thing.”

“Since when is John not agitated?” Molly shrugged. “Besides, he’s the one that introduced me to him. Remember Jim Moriarty from high school?”

“You mean that asshat that ran off with Sherlock and John for a whole weekend and scared everyone half to death? Didn’t he disappear after that to some foreign school or something?”

“I guess not. He and Sherlock are apparently good friends now. Anyway, he took quite an interest in me. We talked about ... Well, mostly Sherlock, actually.” Molly frowned, her face scrunching as she recounted the conversation leading up to his request.

“That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Mary tilted her head, tugging off her mittens.

Molly blushed, remembering the way he’d appraised her. “He was very complimentary though. He kissed my hand and everything. It was a rather nice bit of attention, to be honest.”

“I don’t know, love. He gave me the creeps.” Mary’s shoulders shook, as if just the thought of Jim sent a shiver down her spine. “He always seemed a bit off. He was just everywhere.”

“How would you know? You barely knew him. Besides, it’s the first date I’ve been on in years.” Her shoulders fell as she began to fiddle with her bracelet, the worn silver knots soft under her fingertips. She hadn’t expected her best friend to be so negative about the prospect of her love life.

“I don’t mean to discourage you.” Mary nibbled on her lip, eyes flickering up as she searched for the right words. “I used to see him around at parties. He was very observant. When he was loud, he was really loud, but when he was quiet…” Mary paused, looking at Molly with open concern. “I don’t know how to explain it, love. He used to stare at people like a cat who’s spotted a mouse in its cream. I just worry about you.” 

Mary’s hand over Molly’s was not comforting. She wanted to bury her head into her pillow and push away the warning and her boss’s voice calling out Mousy Molly. She wanted to push away the memory of Jim’s hand tilting her chin, his eyes looking her over with something colder than admiration. She’d more than once wondered why someone so charming would be interested in her, but it was exciting that he was. It was exciting that he was openly infatuated with her.

“It’s just one date, Mary. Nothing’s going to happen. Besides, if he does anything weird, I’ll not go on another one. It’s a theatre, it’s not like he’s taking me out to the hills or anything.” Molly fidgeted, rolling her bracelet in her fingers again. “Besides, it’s the first date I’ve been on since…” She didn’t want to finish that thought, and Mary didn’t force her to.

“I know. It’s fine. I’m probably just worrying too much.” Mary put her hand over Molly’s again and squeezed. “You’ve just been through so much. I’d hate to see you put through more. You have fun on your date now, love.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll have a blast.” Molly forced a smile. “So, how was that sushi place?”

“Horrid. I felt bad, since I picked it out and all, but it was just awful.” Mary crinkled her nose, and Molly giggled.

“Well, at least John took you. I know you’ve wanted to make him try sushi for a while now.”

“Yes, well, to be fair, the owner was probably not too concerned with his bad sushi.” Something in Mary’s eyes twinkled as she pulled out a short gold chain, a red, glinting ruby dangling at the end of it. 

Molly gaped, reaching out to tap the glimmering stone. It swung wide, spraying scarlet light across the bedspread as it caught the lamplight. “You stole this?”

“Sherlock stole it. We were just the distraction. No worries though, the man was bad enough that Sherlock was pretty certain he wouldn’t report the necklace stolen. I think the implication is that the man stole the necklace first. I didn’t ask for details.” Mary slid the necklace back into her pocket.

“Why do you still have it? I thought Sherlock usually completed requests as soon as possible?” 

“Well, turns out his client had plans and can’t meet up until tomorrow morning. So he’s been in a snit all day about getting paid. Don’t know what he’s so desperate for the money for anyway. The man barely spends money as far as I can tell.” Mary tapped her chin. “He’s been more annoying than usual, lately. Stomping about, snapping at people, growling about money.”

Molly laughed. “What are you talking about? That’s Sherlock on a good day.”

“This was different though.” Mary shot Molly another worried look. “He’s been like this since yesterday. Did something happen here Tuesday night?”

Molly’s face flushed as she remembered his warning to be careful. She hadn’t talked to him since then, but that wasn’t unusual. They could often go days without seeing or speaking to each other. He had been intense that night. “No, nothing. He was just demanding and brooding. Sherlock as usual.” Her head shook too emphatically. 

Mary narrowed her eyes but didn’t pry. “Well, I’m worried about the two of you.” She grinned suddenly, leaning forward on the bed to snatch the towel off Molly’s head. “So, are you excited?”

“Of course!” Molly took a breath of relief. The knot in her chest that appeared whenever Sherlock was mentioned slowly loosened as they spent the next few hours talking about school and work and home, their laughter dying away as dawn approached and Mary slid back out the window.

Molly lay awake until the room was gray with the first rays of sun fighting past the blinds. She stared into the silence and willed the uneasy feeling in her stomach away. Eventually she fell asleep to birds chirping outside her window, and dreamed of spiders up her arms and a whisper through her ears to be careful. 

She woke in the afternoon to Poison blaring through the walls, her mother’s singing screeching twice as loud. She groaned and rolled onto her stomach, willing the dream’s terrors away. Her hair was in one big tangle. Her muscles were knotted and painful from her tossing and turning. She’d just sat up in bed when Momma banged at her door.

“Come on, Molly baby. Get up and help your Momma clean. I’m ‘specting comp’ny and don’t need no mess around the house.”

Molly pulled on her sweater and bottoms, running her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to calm the mess. “Don’t forget, Momma. John will be here later, so don’t think you can go wild while I’m out tonight.”

She was met with silence on the other side of the door. The music stopped and her mother’s loud humming ceased. Molly closed her eyes, thumping her head against her wall as Momma’s footsteps stomped down the hallway.

“What do you mean you’re going out?” The question was sharp, missing the softened, slurred edges that Momma’s voice normally took. “You ain’t going out tonight, it’s Friday.”

“Yes, Momma. It’s Friday. That is precisely why I’m leaving tonight.” Molly glanced at the long mirror on her door, wrinkling her nose at the mop of frizz that was her hair. “I’ve got a date tonight, remember?”

“You can’t go. Now, I don’t tolerate that kind of hormonal shit under my roof. You got studies to do, remember that?” Something desperate had threaded into her mother’s anger, raising the protests to a shrill volume. “You can’t be going nowhere with no boy ‘til you get done with your schooling. I ain’t raised no quitter.”

Molly rolled her eyes and quickly locked her door. “I thought I was too stupid for school anyway, Momma?” 

“Now, you know I ain’t said nothing like that. Don’t put words in your Momma’s mouth, now. I ain’t said nothing like that at all.”

Molly groaned, flipping through the clothes in her closet. She tried to ignore the furious knocking at her door. She was looking over a scraggly looking pale yellow dress with blue paint spots on the edges when the door burst open, Momma holding a screwdriver in triumph.  
“You ain’t going on no date.”

“I am, Momma. I haven’t been on one in years. I don’t even have school today. It’ll be fine.” She kept her voice calm and steady, offering her mother an expression of aloofness. “Nothing’s going to happen with him anyway. He’s just one of John’s friends. Just trying to be polite.” 

“I don’t want to see him around this house. We got serious business to deal with here. Can’t have you distracted and running off with no boys. Bills don’t pay themselves you know.” Her mother wagged a finger at her face, hip cocked and fist perched on its thin edge of bone. 

Molly snorted, searching her dresser top for a brush. “Speaking of bills, Momma. How’d your job interview go?”

Her mother’s nose flew up in a snobbish way, her back straightening until her knobby shoulders looked almost twice as wide. “They didn’t deserve me anyhow. It’s all that Sam Weston’s fault, I tell you. He ain’t ever liked me since I walked out on our date.”

“Hm. Of course. So, where will you try next?” Molly twisted her disheveled hair back into a tie, nibbling on her lip as she pushed past her mother. “Going to go back and try some of the old places yet?”

“No reason for all that. I’ll get a job from Scott.” 

Molly crinkled her brow, trying to remember. “Who’s Scott again, Momma?” 

Her mother’s voice followed her into the living room. “He’s the officer. He said he’d come by tonight. He had to call out yesterday. Some big emergency came up at work. Some idiot got robbed.”

The red gem flashed through Molly’s thoughts, but she kept her interest mild. “Who got robbed, did he say?”

“He was in a hurry. Didn’t talk much.” Momma shifted on her feet and walked on. “Anyhow, I’m getting ready. Don’t bring any boys home.”

Molly wandered into the kitchen and picked up an apple. She took a large bite as she collapsed down into a chair, stretching out her legs. Her mother tinkered around for another hour, her music returning to full volume until she emerged looking five years younger and a hundred times happier than when she’d been mouthing at Molly. She leaned over to kiss Molly on the head, cackling when Molly instinctively pulled away.

“What do you want?” Molly asked, eyeing her mother suspiciously.

“What? Your Momma can’t give you a kiss goodbye now?” Momma grinned, pink lips parting for bright white teeth. “What if something happens while I’m away?”  
“Last time you wanted money.” Molly said flatly.

“Well, a little wouldn’t hurt, dear. Thank you.” Momma held out her hand expectantly. Even as Molly rolled her eyes, she reached into her dingy work apron hanging on the chair and handed Momma a few crumpled bills.

“You’re the best, dear. Love you!” And with that, Momma disappeared down the hallway, still humming “Fallen Angel.”

Molly didn’t comment, just grabbed her brush off the table and tugged her hair down. She rolled and pinned and sprayed until tangled knots turned to cascading curls. Her dark hair fell on her shoulders and lay heavily on her head, clashing comically with her sleep swollen eyes and pajamas. She looked woefully over her limited vials of make-up. She’d not had much reason to use any, and almost everything she owned now was at least a year old. She glanced over the dull, pale colors. 

Her eyes caught on the gleam of red lipstick, and she was struck with a mocking memory.

_Red? Clearly you’re trying to compensate for the smallish point of your lips. Really, I don’t know why you bother._

She shuddered and reached instead for a tinted gloss. It had to have been one of her high school purchases. It felt sticky and thick, like slime over her lips. Even still, when she looked in the mirror her face looked brighter for it. Or maybe she was imagining things. She glanced back down at the browns and grays of her eye shadow, frowning at her selection. Mousy Molly, always too afraid to go for noticeable, she thought. Content to just fade away into the crowd.

She sighed and picked up one of her lighter browns, finishing up her make-up as quickly as possible. She glanced at her clock, surprised to find it was only six. She leaned back, ticking her nails on the table before she hopped up to check her phone. Jim hadn’t texted her, or called her, or contacted her at all since asking her out. A small part of her wondered if he’d backed out.

Pushing away the doubt, she headed to her room and pulled the blinds closed. The last thing she needed was one of her friends trying to climb the fire escape to see her in her undies. Boring as the cotton panties may be, she still preferred to keep them private.

Her closet was bare of any fancy dresses or pretty date outfits. She had only one good dress tucked away into the back, dark and daring and lovely. She ran a hand over the soft fabric, thinking back to the one and only time she’d worn it. 

_Trying to emphasize your breasts in an attempt to attract the male gaze to your inadequate chest and hip size. Seems Molly’s on the prowl._

She flushed as Sherlock’s voice growled at her from the past, and bit her gloss-covered lip. For a moment she recalled the wild and angry look he’d gotten when she’d walked in that Christmas. She closed her eyes, remembering the upturn of his lip when he’d spotted the present with its innocuous card tucked into the ribbon.

_So that’s why you chose such bright lipstick. It had to have taken ages to find a perfect match. Looking to send a message, Molly?_

She slid the straps off the hanger and unzipped the back, stepping into the silky sheath. It still fit like a glove, hugging her body and accentuated what little curves she had. Even now, she thought it was flattering.

She pulled on her hose, stretching the tanned nylon over her calf. She was careful not to run it, wiggling it on. She slipped into her only heels, biting her lip at the nicks and scratches in the dull black. 

She stood and looked into her bedroom mirror, turning to check all her angles. She looked exactly as she had at last year’s Christmas party.

_Someone’s got love on the mind tonight. Who is he, Molly Hooper?_

She shivered, turning away from her reflection. 

_I wonder who this present is for. Someone important. Must be our mystery man._

She checked her phone again. No word from Jim. No word from John. Not even Mary had said anything. She paced the room quickly, her nerves shaking. She paused at the mirror again, caught by the same frightened look she’d worn that winter night. 

_Blue eyes widening as he scanned the card, tracing over the looping cursive spelling Billy._

_Cupid bow lips hanging open in surprise before his gaze lifted to meet hers._

_A soft apology before he ran, present tossed on the table._

_The humiliating note at the bottom, declaring. Love Molly xxx._

Molly eyed her phone. Jim’s number waited in her contacts, an easy and detached method for cancelling her date. A single text and she wouldn’t have to worry about her dress or her make up or her shoes, and she could sit at home and…

Spend another Friday alone. Turn into a lonely, bitter woman hung up on a man who was conflicted about her at best.

No.

She got up and moved across the house, checking the time and cleaning up paint spills and paper bits. She swept up dust and crumbs in the kitchen, straightened the cushions, and paced the hallway until six. She watched the door and checked her phone and hoped against hope that John would show up soon. She didn’t want to be alone if Momma came through the door early, determined to make her stay.

After she’d had enough fidgeting and nervous cleaning, she sat on her couch and popped in a Disney movie. She slid off her shoes and tucked her feet under her legs as Beauty and the Beast started, smiling at the familiar story and letting the fairy tale carry her thoughts away from bright blue eyes and charming, cold smiles. She was so wrapped up in the music’s crescendo, the snarling wolves, the flashing storm, that when a knock sounded at the door, she jumped.

Quickly stepping into her shoes, she smoothed down her dress and peeked through the peephole. Three blurred shapes stood awkwardly at the doorway. Molly stood aside hastily, opening the door to allow John, Mary, and Jim into the room.

“Look who I met in the hallway!” Jim spoke up immediately, grinning as he placed a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d only just shown up, John.”

“Got a bit delayed. No big deal. Anyway, I’m here. Where’s Momma?” John shifted away from Jim’s outstretched hand, shuffling over to the couch. 

“She’s gone out. She’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Until then you and Mary have some time to yourselves.” Molly laughed, giving Mary a big hug. “Keep it PG though. I mean it, she really will be back soon. She and her new boyfriend were supposed to be having a night in, I think.”

“Yeah, yeah.” John stood stiffly, staring at Jim with furrowed brows. “I guess you two best get on with it then. Don’t you have some movie or something to catch?” 

“Well, theatre. And yes, we best get going if we want to get a good table.” Jim held his arm out to her, eyes dragging over her dress and heels slowly until her cheeks burned pink. “You look completely ravishing.” His gaze lingered on the tight fit of her bodice before he flicked his eyes up to hers. He laughed when her blush deepened. “Always blushing, Molly. How innocent.”

“And she’ll remain that way if you know what’s good for you, mate.” John scowled at them. Mary’s hand on his arm seemed a tenuous hold on his temper. “And stop looking at her like that. Go on and get to your date.”

“So bossy, Little Hooper.” Jim led Molly to the door, stepping aside to allow her through it. “Let’s allow the lovely lady her night in peace. After all, it’s the least she deserves, isn’t it?” Before John could respond Jim had popped to the other side and slammed the door, tearing down the hallway with her towed behind him. He ran all the way to his car.

She didn’t know much about cars, but sleek and midnight blue and shiny as polished silver told her that it was expensive. She let herself in, surprised by the sickening sweet smell pouring thickly from the vents. Jim hopped in beside her, his soft leather seats barely dented by the passengers. Their drive was silent, despite several questions sliding in and out of Molly’s thoughts. She rubbed her nose as the copious air freshener pounded through her sinuses. By the time they reached the tiny theatre she practically jumped out of the vehicle, gulping in air to rid herself of the stale air.

“Well, we’re here. What do you think?” He laid his arm out as if he were showing her a great treasure, pride swelling in his chest.

She looked over the peeling paint on the sign and the cramped ticket booth at the face of the building. She wondered how long it had been since the small space had been renovated. Cioccolato curved around the front in large, dusty red letters. Several were broken, but she looked back at Jim’s expectant face and smiled tightly. “Looks vintage. Lovely.” 

“I assure you, you’ll like the inside better. Once the performers hit the stage, you’ll just die.” He rushed forward to the ticket booth, chattering in quick whispers to the attendant. After a few brief words he waved her forward and marched the two of them through the swinging doors. “Do you like Robin Hood?”

“I never really read it.”

“No worries, we’re not watching Robin Hood.” He sat them at a table near the front. “You know, Molly, you’ve not asked one time what we’ve come to see. Do you usually just go where people tell you?”

“What?” She pulled her hand away, but he remained oblivious to her upset. 

“I think you’ll like this story. I think it’ll have a lot of real life application.” He didn’t pause in his ramblings, but he was no longer looking at her. Despite the empty stage, he did not tear his eyes away from the curtain. “It’s always the most fun right before the show begins. The anticipation. The wait. The countdown.” 

“Have you seen this before?” 

He ignored her, growing silent as the theatre filled. Just as the lights dimmed, Molly felt his hand clutch hers, his eyes still glued to the stage. 

“My favorite part. The moment right before, as everyone gets calm. No one knows what to expect. Just a story, and it may be good, may be bad.” He smiled a slow smile and looked back at her. “Anything could happen.”

She furrowed her brows and shifted her gaze to the stage. An actor had begun to wander around a living room set, mouthing about something an unintroduced character had said. The set was creaky and old, faded curtains hanging on a painted window, a rickety bed barely held together in the corner. The character rambled on about his woes and dreams for what seemed like an eternity, moving from one scene to the next with his lamentations of how he would accomplish all of his dreams if only he had the right opportunity. 

“Sounds a bit like those far-fetched fairy tales, doesn’t it? Some poor girl whining about her crummy life and expecting some valiant prince to save her.” He shot her a look as if this was some joke they’d shared before. 

She only offered a thin smile and attempted to watch the show. The protagonist eventually found his true love, a wealthy and powerful princess meant to accept him as he was, with all of his special skills and devilishly handsome charms.

“Only the unattainable will do, of course.” Jim scoffed, giving her another conspiratorial look. “A peasant has about as much chance with a princess as a beggar does with a tycoon.”

Molly sunk into her chair, looking over her worn dress and scuffed shoes. She would nearly swear she saw him look over them too, though he said nothing. He only smiled at her warmly and turned back, apparently enjoying the show even with all of its obviousness.

By the time the show was over she had endured a myriad of strange and pointed comments. The confusion voiced itself before she could stop it, bubbling forward with indignity.  
“What were those comments about? Do you think someone as poor as me doesn’t deserve love with someone rich and successful?” She raised her eyebrows, looking purposefully at his suit and gleaming shoes.

“Of course not. No, no. I was just pointing out the clear use of clichés and lazy writing. I meant no parallels.” He assured her with another clutch at her hand, holding her fingers close to his heart.

“Um. Thanks, then.” She gently tugged her hand away, resting it instead on the curve of her purse. She looked across the street to Jim’s car, only to pause in her skimming on a man in a blue hoodie, cords drawn tight. He leaned against the building across from them, blue eyes staring right through her. She turned to point him out to Jim, but by the time she’d caught his attention and pointed to the alleyway, he was gone.

“I’m sure you were just imagining things. All kinds of junkies stumble around this street. Best get in the car now, dear. Hate for you to get a loose stalker on your tail.” He ushered her into the vehicle with a forceful hand at the small of her back. 

He dropped her off at her apartment without following her up to her room. He’d merely kissed her hand again, and stared up at her with those glittering dark eyes, and wished her a good night. The words had rolled off his tongue like velvet, his mouth hovering over Molly’s hand as he’d pinned her in place with his gaze.

She’d made her way up the stairs to a silent apartment. No television played and no radio blared, so that the night was still and stifling. She hurried through her door, past Mary and John on the sofa, beyond her mother’s snores in her bedroom. She dashed to her room and slid down the door, kicking off her shoes to lean her head back and take a deep breath. 

Her phone buzzed beside her, lighting up the inside of her bag. She dug through, surprised to find not one, but two messages.

Jim: Tonight was a lot of fun. We’ll have to do it again sometime. How about we get together next weekend? Another Friday would be wonderful.

Molly groaned, burying her head in her hand as she mulled it over.

The date hadn’t been great. Or even really all that fun. She’d seen plays before, but this one, with Jim’s commentary, had proved poorly written and a bit insulting. On the other hand, Jim was nice, and his insults appeared genuinely unintentional. He must not find her to be too poor, if he wanted another date with her.

The idea wasn’t so horrible. Another Friday not spent at work or sitting around the house keeping an eye out for her mother.

It was the second message that had her insides twisting. 

Sherlock: I’m heading over. You’ve managed to keep my roommate hostage for the night. I’ve required him.

She’d only just read the message before there was a knock at her window. The tap was light, hesitant. Unlike any time he’d come to visit before. She realized her blinds were still down, and hurried to pull them up.

He looked horrid. His face was pale and his hair disheveled. His clothes were covered in dirt and wet with rain. He stumbled through her window and fell onto her bed, shivering in the chill of her room.

“Good God, Sherlock. What happened?” She reached down and pushed his hair away from his face. His lips were nearly white, his eyes the brightest blue she’d ever seen them. “Are you alright? What’s going on?”

He moaned as he pushed away from her, sitting up on her bed. He cradled his arm to his chest and tilted his head towards her.

“You’re alone.” The words were mumbled and slurred, barely coherent.

Her mouth fell open and she took a step back. “Excuse me? Of course I’m alone. Did you think I’d invite him in for coffee?”

He shook his head fiercely, body still shaking. Molly reached over and grabbed her blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders tightly. He looked at her with his electric eyes and frowned. “Why not? He’s charming and rich and obviously interested.” He said the words slowly, as if forming them several times before they’d left his mouth.

“Yet here you are.” She said it too quietly for him to hear, but he had already moved on to scrutinizing her bedroom again. “He’s asked me out again. Next Friday.” She watched him, his head jerking towards hers, eyes wide, mouth set in a grimace.

“No,” was all he said, a simple demand.

“You can’t tell me no, Sherlock. We don’t work like that.” She sighed and leaned away from him. She twirled her bracelet between her fingers, trying and failing to make sense of his behavior. “Besides, I still don’t understand why you care.”

He groaned again, leaning forward. “Don’t ask me, Molly. Not right now. I’m afraid I’m a bit not good.”

“Yeah, I see that. What on earth is going on with you?” His head thunked onto her headboard, rolling on his neck until he stared at the flecks on her ceiling. She reached out and placed a careful hand against his skin, surprised to find no fever. Instead, his skin was cool and clammy. She pushed his hair away from his face, forcing him to look at her. “Sherlock, I’m worried about you. You’ve been acting strange these last few days.”

He leaned towards her, eyes focused on hers, as she felt his hand slip carefully behind her back. He glided over the bruises at her side and buried his fingers in the still stiff curls. His eyes flitted over her face, taking in the droop in her lids, the part of her mouth, the dilation of her pupils, the sharp inhale of breath as he pulled her forward to cradle her cheek in his other hand. 

“Molly Hooper, you contrary creature.” His lips brushed against her neck, soft breaths running over her skin. “You look so much like you, but smell so much like him.”

Molly stiffened in his grip, untangling herself from him quickly. “What?”

“Do you like your new boyfriend?” He leaned back, the same dreamy quality to his speech as before, but now he’d looked at her expectantly, as if he actually awaited an answer.

“Boyfriend? Since when do you care if I have a boyfriend? Since when do you do all this?” She gestured to his hands, one resting on her leg. She was close to tears, but for once Sherlock’s observational skills didn’t pick up on the fact. He appeared genuinely surprised by the placement of his hands, and yanked them back as if scalded. 

“Be careful around him, Molly. He’s not good.”

She scowled at him, jumping up from her bed and pointing to her door. “I think you should go. Get John and go home, and if you’re lucky, I’ll pretend none of this happened.”

For a moment she saw fear cross his face, before he schooled it back into his apathy. 

“Goodnight, Molly.” 

He strode out of her bedroom easily, thumping John on the head to wake him and rousing Mary quietly. Molly closed her door as the sleepy trio wandered out.

She curled in her bed, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory of his hand on her face and his fingers in her hair, and his lips leaving fire on her skin. When she opened her eyes again, her phone was lit with another message. She picked it up and read quickly. 

Jim: Hope I didn’t offend earlier. Give me another chance?

She lay considering for a long while, willing her heart to slow and her mind to quiet and her blood to cool from Sherlock. Finally, when she had considered all of the facts, she texted him back.

Molly: Ok. Friday it is then. See you soon. : ) 

But when she closed her eyes, she did not imagine glittering dark eyes or sweet smells. She saw sky blue and smelled cigarette smoke and felt the burn of skin on her skin, broken by a wonder-filled observation.

_Molly, you contrary girl._


	6. Cast from the Fire

Another Friday and Molly’s nerves were no better than the last. She tried on her new lipstick, the red shade too bright for her comfort. She left it on anyway, pouting her lips out before puffing her cheeks in frustration. She braided her hair to the side, frowning at the awkward point of her chin and small angles of her lips. Turning away from the mirror, she shimmied into her skirt and blouse. Her phone buzzed on the dresser, the phone lighting with a message.

**Jim: Ready?**

**Molly: Nearly.**

She set her phone down, glancing over her braids, smoothing her skirt, turning to see herself in her mirror. Her phone went off again, vibrating across her dresser top.

She leaned over, giving a frustrated sigh at his name again on the screen. He certainly didn’t seem to be very patient. He usually texted her four times to her one, without saying anything new.

She heard the apartment door open as the ringing stopped, and she quickly tugged on her shoes and sprinted across the room to meet him in the living room. 

Instead, she came face to face with her mother. The woman swayed on her feet, cheeks red and face scrunched in anger. Molly stepped instinctively back, taking note of objects in her mother’s reach. She continued stepping back, watching her mother look around the room. She wasn’t fast enough.

Momma’s eyes locked onto her. Molly winced at the snarl that twisted her mother’s lips.

“What kinda whore make up is that? I ain’t taught you to dress like no slut.” Momma came towards her with shaky legs. “All your tits hanging out. Bet you think you look right pretty.” 

Momma sneered, advancing until Molly’s back hit the wall behind her. 

“Momma, I’m going on a date, remember? I’m going with Jim from last week.” Molly tried to pull away when Momma grabbed hold of her blouse. The thick smell of whiskey rolled over Molly’s senses, and she blinked the sting of alcohol out of her eyes.

“I ain’t ever let you dress like a slut, girl.” With one hard yank, the fabric gave, and the v-cut of Molly’s shirt tore around to reveal the white cotton of her bra. Momma laughed. “Teach you to wear that shit. Go make me a drink.”

“You’ve had enough. I thought you were supposed to be looking for a job.” Anger burned on Molly’s tongue like bile. She pulled her shirt over her chest, trying to think of another shirt she could wear. She didn’t have many nice ones to choose from. 

Her thoughts were interrupted as her mother swung back around to her, half pushing and half leaning against her, nearly toppling them both over. Cigarette smoke and whiskey nearly choked her, the mixture heavy and vile on the air. Her mother pushed off of her with a painful grip on her shoulder.

“I said get me a drink. I ain’t asking you twice, now get.” Momma pushed away from her, shuffling over to collapse on the couch. 

Molly blinked back tears, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “I said no, Momma. I’m not getting you a drink. You’ve had enough, and I’m not going to be here tonight to watch you.”

“You’re gonna go whore around with that boy of yours ain’t you? Well I got news for you, girl. I saw your man.” Momma chuckled darkly, struggling to reach the remote on the floor. “He was all doped up behind my bar. I saw him there when I went out the back, just slumped over with a little needle in his arm.”

“You vile liar!” Molly rushed into the living room, blocking the television. “You don’t even know what he looks like. Why do you ruin everything?” She shrieked it louder than she’d meant. Her shirt flapped uselessly, falling down her shoulder.

“You don’t call me no liar, now!” Momma screamed, jumping up on unsteady legs. “I keep this house in line while you’re off chasing junkies.” 

Momma stumbled towards her. She fell with a crash onto the kitchen table, knocking over the candles and leaves and pumpkins Molly had set up for fall. She let out a low, guttural moan from the floor that slowly turned into Molly’s name.

“Molly, baby, help your Momma. Moooolly…” She twisted on the floor, tangling herself in the tablecover.

Molly sighed and ran her hands through her hair, waiting on her mother to stand or kneel or something. When she continued rolling fruitlessly shuffling over to the mess on the floor, Molly finally edged over, keeping on her toes in case her mother tried to swing from the ground. “Get up. You got yourself down there, you can get yourself up.”  
“Don’t lip me. Help your Momma. Help your Momma up.” Momma held out her hands, letting loose another low moan. 

Molly leaned over the pitiful tangle of orange fabric and flailing limbs, frowning and offering her mother a hand and grunting at her dead weight. “Did you spend all day at the bar again, Momma?”

“No! I got an escort from the building.” Momma stuck her nose in the air, brushing off imaginary dust from her fall. “I got tired of their attitude.”

“They cut you off and kicked you out, you mean.” Molly said dryly. She sighed, picking up the mess off the floor. She’d only just managed to get up the last leaf when something hard smacked into the back of her head. Black flashed behind her lids and she caught herself on the floor, turning around to see her mother fuming. The candle that had been chunked at her rolled away into the kitchen.

“I told you not to call me no liar.” Momma’s voice was loud in Molly’s ringing ears.

Molly froze as she tried to stand. The door opened behind her, and she heard a low hum of surprise as the newcomer noticed the mess of her home.   
“I guess you’re not ready?” Jim’s voice slithered through the living room, spurring her into motion. 

She stood, pulling her ruined shirt over her chest. She crossed her arms, her cheeks burning red as she looked down. Pain bloomed across her head when she stood, the base of her skull pounding.

“I’m not sure tonight’s such a good night.” Her voice shook, tears gathering at her eyelashes. “I’m so sorry you had to see this.” She gestured at the mess with the arm not holding her shirt.

“You apologizing for me? You don’t speak for me, shut your mouth.” Momma sauntered over to Jim, face inches from his as she looked him over. “I don’t like the looks of this one. You ain’t going out tonight no way. Your Momma needs you.”

“Nonsense. Your daughter is perfectly capable of making her own decisions. Of course she wants to go with me.” He slipped away from her mother’s shrewd scrutiny, coming over to place a hand against her arm. “Go on and get changed, Molly. We’ll have a wonderful night.”

“She ain’t going nowhere with no boy. I ain’t having no slut walking ‘round here. She got studies, she got bills to pay!” Momma shrieked, hurling worn-out couch cushions at the two of them. “She ain’t spreading her legs for you if she wants to sleep in this house. She ain’t giving you no free lay.” 

Molly stood, frozen, in the middle of the floor as her mother and Jim faced off. He remained smiling, ignoring Momma’s screaming, thrashing fit. He dodged a trinket, fixing cold eyes on her and raising an eyebrow. “Molly, weren’t you going to get dressed?”

“Oh, yeah,” she mumbled, scurrying back to her room and grabbing the first decent blouse she found. She paused to steady herself, her head pounding and her blood surging in horror and anger. With a deep breath she started to get dressed.

Stripping off the ruined remains of her first shirt, she tossed it in the garbage and hurried to straighten out her new one. She practically ran back to the room, half expecting to see Jim cowering under Momma’s endless screaming. Instead, she found Momma pacing through the living room, path blocking the door, hollering occasional obscenities and insults.

“You ain’t going. You ain’t leaving this house, you hear me?” Momma stopped her pacing long enough to point a wobbly finger at her daughter, her face red and hair wild. Wide eyes made her appear mad.

“Momma, go lie down. You’ll feel better about this when you’ve cooled off some.” Molly tried to reach for her mad, circling mother, but the woman jerked away. “Come on, Momma. Going on a date isn’t going to change anything. It’s just Jim.” Molly placed one arm in Jim’s, willing him to use some of his charms. “See, perfectly proper.”

Jim chose that time to slide his arm away from hers and wrap it around her waist. She blushed when a gentle grip squeezed against her hip, and pulled her flush against his side. She grit her teeth and took a forceful step back. Shooting Jim an incredulous look, she caught him snickering at her. With a shake of her head she marched to her still pacing mother.

“Momma, I’m going on a date. I’m going to have to grow up eventually. It’s going to be ok. Now go lay down. John promised me he’d be here soon.” John hadn’t said actually said anything to her yet, but Sherlock had promised to have him here tonight. She tried not to think about their track record of keeping promises. “Now, I’m going to leave. I’ll be back tonight, ok?” She kept her voice low, her mouth trying to twitch into a smile. She never quite succeeded. 

She turned to walk back to Jim, surprised when something hard collided against her back, sending her sprawling onto her knees. She looked behind her, arms shielding her face, to see her mother wielding an old breakfast tray, eyes glinting like hard steel. Jim stepped back from the two of them, hands held in front of him protectively.

“You go out that door, you ain’t coming back in it. I mean it. No sluts in this house. You choose me or him, right now.”

“Oh, dear. Such drama.” Jim wiggled his eyebrows at her, offering her a hand up. “Didn’t expect such excitement today.” He grinned at her, standing firmly by the door.

Molly scooted away from her mother, standing abruptly when she got to Jim. She didn’t say anything until she’d dragged him beyond the door, tears tracking silently down her cheeks. She’d come back tonight, and Momma will have forgotten all about this. Right now, she had to get out.

“It’ll be fine. Let’s go.” She waved away his comforting hand at her back and rushed out of the building. She wiped furiously at her tears, trying to hide her sniffling behind her hand.

“I hope you’re still up for our date.” He pushed the hair away from her face, grinning at her and bopping her nose. “You’re all snotty, dear. Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Molly stepped back, trying to escape his constantly reaching hands. Her skin felt too sensitive, her heart beating too fast to be touched right now. Exhaustion ate away at her bones, and she bit back a retort to his strange condolence. “Couldn’t we just, I don’t know, go to the park or something? Do we have to go out? I don’t really think I’m up for it.”   
Jim didn’t understand. To him this was all a spectacle, amusing and a bit strange, if not a bit disturbing. Was this how everyone would respond to her mother’s abuse? She’d never had anyone witness her mother’s fits, besides John. Jim had laughed…

She was brought out of her thoughts by a soft hand at her chin, another touch at her hip. Jim was speaking to her, the smile at his lips gentle, his words delivered with a cool, calming quality.

“Nonsense, dear. I’ve got just the date to get this whole mess off your mind.” He moved closer to her, gripping her hips. She resisted the urge to step back again, offering him a hesitant smile.

“I’m really not up for the public, I’m afraid.” She fidgeted, rubbing her hands against her sob-swollen cheeks. “I probably look like a mess.”

“You do, but I can fix that.” He steered her around with a forceful hand at her lower back.

This car was different from the first one she’d saw. Black and sleek and small, she couldn’t help but be impressed. There were only two seats, and he opened the door with a key. She watched it slide up and fold in, before Jim’s laughter made her look away, her face scarlet with embarrassment. She’d never seen such fancy doors.

“How easily impressed you seem to be, little Molly Mouse.” He grinned at her and walked her to her side.

She slid into the warm, smooth seat. She sunk into soft leather, running her fingers over the supple covering. Jim started the car in total silence, no revving or roaring or growling engine. Instead, the lights and air conditioner flickered on in cold quiet. This car had the same sickly sweet smell that turned her stomach. She glanced over to Jim, wondering if she could ask him to turn the air off. At least maybe the smell may weaken.

He was already engrossed in traffic, mouth turned down in a scowl as he glared down the oncoming cars. She bit her lip, wondering why he’d insisted on their date as he inched out of his parking spot.

Her breath caught as her eyes landed on dark, unruly curls bobbing above the heads of strangers. She only barely glimpsed his broad shoulders and her brother dragged reluctantly behind before they disappeared into her building and she was whisked away down the road.

“Now, which do you prefer: Chinese or Indian?” He didn’t look at her, turning the wheel sharply as he took a corner. 

“Um, Indian? Are we going out to eat? I’m not really hungry.” Her stomach flopped as another burst of air freshener blasted through the vents and he took another sharp turn.   
“Got a bit turned around there, trying to get out. Do you like horror films?” He continued on as if he hadn’t heard her question.

“No. Not much for the big, scary stuff.” Molly held tightly to her seat. “That and Sherlock always picked holes in the plots when all of us went out.” She grinned, remembering how silly the movies had seemed when he and Mary had talked, loudly, about the ludicrous decisions of the protagonists.

“Yes, he does have a habit for picking things apart doesn’t he?” Jim tapped his steering wheel, before starting his questions again. “Do you enjoy classical music?”

Molly blushed, wondering if she should confess that she liked listening only to the violin. He probably knew that Sherlock played. She jumped, stifling her surprised squeak as he came within feet of a passing car. “Could you maybe drive a bit more carefully?”

“No worries, dear. The airbags in this gal are phenomenal.” He patted her thigh, and she shrunk against her seat. “So, do you enjoy classical music or not?”

“Um, not generally, no.” She tried to pay attention to where they were going, but the buildings were falling further and further away. Her sputtering vehicle had never taken her this far away from home. “Where are we going again?”

“Oh, just some property my friend is letting us use for the night. I’ve a really gorgeous night planned for you, Molly-dear.” 

They approached a stop sign, an empty road stretching before them with a daunting sameness. No landmarks stood out, no signs told where they were. Molly eyed her phone, seeing her signal flicker at one and two bars. He took the opportunity to lean over towards her, tracing her jawline with a fingernail, a touch without touch. She forced a smile, but he did not smile back. His eyes shone at her with something dark and something cold that made her shiver.

“So, uh, why so far out?” She looked out the window, wondering if she should tell him she wanted to go home. Fear and nausea pounded against her skin, roiling through her insides in terrible waves. Her phone buzzed loudly in the small car. The sound drew Jim’s curious gaze, but he quickly looked back to the road.

“I have a great evening planned. Just me, you, and some starlight. I have something in the back you’ll just die for, Molly.” He did grin at this, tapping his fingers steadily on his steering wheel to sounds Molly couldn’t hear.  
“I’m not really feeling up to surprises, Jim. Can’t you just tell me what it is?” She checked her phone, surprised to see John’s name on the message.

**John: Molly, what on earth happened? Momma hasn’t stopped blubbering since we got here.**

“What, don’t you trust me, little Molly mouse?” He laughed, holding the steering wheel with one hand so he could grab hers. “I’d really love to see your hair in pigtails again one day. When you haven’t worked all these yummy curls in, I suppose.”

“Uh, thanks, I think.” She texted John back with one hand, nibbling on her lip. “I just have had a long day.” Clearly, she thought, but didn’t say. 

**Molly: It’s a long story. Please, really, don’t ask.**

Her phone buzzed immediately, this time with Sherlock’s name. She rolled her eyes, certain that Sherlock had been reading over John’s shoulder (if he hadn’t just stolen John’s phone in the first place.)

Sherlock: Molly, did you run away with Moriarty?

She frowned, surprised at the accusation. Did they really think she’d run away with some man she’d only gone on one date with? A sharp noise caught her attention, and she looked over to see Jim looking at her expectantly. 

“Oh, sorry, what was the question again? John’s asking me what happened.” She hid her phone, hoping he wouldn’t see Sherlock’s name. 

“I asked if you drink champagne or wine. I wasn’t sure, from what Sherlock has told me of your family life.” He ended the sentence coolly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It appears you’ve quite the history, Molly Hooper.”

Molly bit her lip, glancing back at her phone. “Uh, I prefer not to drink, but I sip sometimes.” Sherlock had told him about her?

“I think you could use a drink, dear. Trust me, I know when someone needs a little lift.” He tossed her warm smile, but her stomach twisted again.  
Just needed a little lift before going out, Molly dear. 

It’s just a little lift for the interview.

It’s a little lift for those pre-date jitters.

Her mother’s voice echoed over the years, forcing her to take a deep breath and close her eyes.

“Hey, are you ok?” He squeezed her hand, pulling off the road and onto a dirt path. The vehicle shook. She shot him an incredulous look.  
“You’re driving this car off-road?” She glanced out the window, a fine dust film settling over the clear glass. Dirt and rocks kicked up in the mirror.

“Oh, no worries. It’s simple enough to clean the gal.” He shrugged it off and whatever concern he’d shown for her vanished as quickly as it’d come.

She looked back at her phone, angling it away from Jim’s view. She responded quickly, looking around to see again if there were any landmarks she could use to tell John or Sherlock where she was. No houses or buildings were in sight.

Molly: We’re just out. Momma’s drunk. She threw a fit. Everything’s fine. I’ll talk later.

She hit send, hoping she still had enough signal for the message to reach Sherlock. Then she sat back, watching the sun slip away and the path grow narrow and the main road sink beneath the grass. By the time the car finally stopped, they’d reached the middle of the field, where a patch of broken grass and crumpled paper cups seemed to be their only destination. 

“Um, is this where you were taking me to?” She stepped out of the car hesitantly, feeling ridiculous in her skirt and blouse and make up.

“Oh, it’ll be positively on fire in an hour or so. Want to get the stuff from the back?” He tossed her the keys as he began picking up the cups and tossing them further away.   
She went to the trunk, furling her nose at the once-shiny black paint all covered with dirt. Inside was a large blanket, folded into quarters, with a heavy, full basket on top of it. She lugged one out, and then the other. The basket smelled like jams and breads and fresh fruit, but felt as if it were weighed down with rocks.

The weight turned out to be bottles, large and round and green as the backs of flies. Three bottles and two stem glasses with long flutes and pale pink twisted around the bottom. Granny apples and pink ladies and glass bowls filled with cherries and strawberries spread out against the blanket, a feast of sweet and tangy and fizzy delights. In the middle of it all were fresh baked breads. She caught cinnamon and pumpkin in the air, and saw one loaf with a thick glaze drizzled over the top. Her stomach growled, and she realized she hadn’t really eaten all day.

“I thought we might like something a little—”

The shrill ring of her phone interrupted him, and Molly covered her face in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.” She fumbled to grab her phone, seeing John’s name on the screen but knowing, somehow, that it was Sherlock on the other side of the line. She answered, walking a few steps away from Jim. “What on earth do you want?” She tried to keep her voice calm, but threads of paranoia wove through as she remembered his warning. Just be careful, Molly Hooper.

She certainly wasn’t being careful now, she thought, glancing back to the bottles and praying they were just fancy bottles of sparkling grape juice.

“Tell me you’re not alone with him. Tell me he took you somewhere public.” Sure enough, it was Sherlock’s voice that broke through the silence on her phone. He sounded distant, the line fading out over his words. 

“What on earth are you afraid of?” She smiled at Jim, waving off his worried glances. She bit her lip, knowing that she couldn’t fool Sherlock. “We’re just at a picnic, I think. I’m not entirely sure what he’s doing, but it seems to be innocent enough.” She repeated the last part to herself, counting over all the perfectly normal moments she and Jim had on the way here.

He’d asked her questions, tried to engage in small talk. That wasn’t scary. It was innocent.

He’d tried to comfort her, albeit in a very uncomfortable way. She’d just explain to him that she didn’t like being touched so much. It wouldn’t be a big deal.  
He’d prepared a night time picnic. Even that wasn’t daunting. Everything he’d done had been perfectly normal.

She turned, without thinking, to the empty road, pacing a small circle beside the car. Her shoes sunk into the dirt. She twirled her hair on her finger, biting her lip as she waited for him to answer. He was taking too long. He knew she was lying.

But she wasn’t. Not really. Right?

“Molly, you don’t know him like I do.” His voice came through again, a note of irritation. “You’re mom says you can’t come back.”

“Sherlock, my mom always says I can’t come back. She’s threatened that at least a dozen times this month.” She hissed his name, glancing back in time to see Jim’s eyes roll heavenward. “This really isn’t a good time, ok?” Of course this had to be the one time Sherlock was actually concerned for her. When it was likely nothing was happening at all.

“John’s worried.” The line went quiet, and she’d thought she’d lost him until he came through again, loud and clear. “You can stay with us. Don’t go home with him.”

Her face bloomed red, her foot stamping into the soft earth in aggravation. “You can’t tell me what to do, Sherlock.”

“It was John’s idea.” She could hear John shouting in the background, and she was certain he had no knowledge of this plan. “Or at least, it would have been, if he wasn’t busy telling off your mom for being drunk. Again.”

“I’ll stay with Mary. Does that make you feel better?” But her phone was quiet, without the spurts of background noise. The line had died.

She turned back towards Jim and smiled, ignoring the way her stomach twisted into knots and her mind thought over the empty, endless road that separated her from safety. She walked back to the blanket, sitting carefully in her skirt and tucking her legs under her. 

“Sorry about that. My brother’s just really… worried.” She looked down at her hands, rolling her bracelet between her fingers. “Sorry about all this. I know my family is rather crazy. Especially with all…” She trailed off when he placed a hand against her thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before his fingers dragged away. She frowned, tucking her legs more tightly beneath her.

“No worry for all that now, Molly dear. We’ve got a date to enjoy.” He held a glass out to her, a smile bright on his face that contrasted his flat, black eyes. “Just trust me, dear. One drink won’t make you an alcoholic. I’ve seen my fair share to know.” 

She shook her head, biting her lip. He pressed the glass into her hand, pouring from one of the large bottles to fill her glass halfway.

“Sip away, Molly dear.”


	7. Chapter 7: No Promises Given

Molly glanced down at the drink, small bubbles rising from the pink swirls against the glass. Something sharp and numbing buzzed through her nose, her stomach lurching. She took a sip, the fizz tingling down her tongue and tickling her throat. There wasn’t the harsh burn of alcohol she’d been expecting, but instead, a warm feeling at the back of her throat that spread down her shoulders and settled in her stomach. It did taste good, but she put it down hastily anyway.

“Are you hungry? How about some pumpkin bread?” He pointed to the glazed loaf, cutting a thick slice. “I hear it’s your favorite?”

She frowned, accepting the slice wrapped in a napkin. “Who told you?”

“A little birdy, love.” He winked at her, and she felt a blush creep across her cheeks.

She took a large bite of the bread, surprised at the bitterness that hit her tongue at first, followed by the sugary, dense flavor of pumpkin. She chewed and swallowed quickly, the bread thick in her throat. “Let me guess. Sherlock?”

“Of course. He suggested everything on the menu tonight actually. Implied you had a great affinity for baked goods.” Jim leaned back, eyeing the skyline as if he were searching for something. “It’ll be dark soon.”

“You must be great friends with Sherlock. You talk to him about quite a lot.” She frowned as she forced herself to take another bite, her stomach rebelling as she swallowed and put it down on the blanket. She took a drink from her glass to wash down the strange, bitter taste.

“Oh yeah, he comes to me for everything. Practically lived with me for a year or so. Not officially, of course, but he was a near permanent fixture on my couch.”

Molly felt her stomach roll, the taste of the bread sticking to the back of her throat. She took another drink, choking down a cough. “I’m sorry, but he never really mentioned you to me until I met you at John’s. I thought after that weekend you just sort of quit talking to each other.”

He shrugged and refilled her cup, the pale gold liquid rounding at the top of the glass. He offered her a smile before leaning back against the blankets, eyeing her closely. “He may have been a little wary of sharing me. We had a bit of a fling.”

“You did?” Molly shook her head. Her world dimmed, her eyes suddenly heavy. “I didn’t know Sherlock had dated anyone. He’s always seemed so stand-offish.”

“Oh yes. I knew he’d hidden me, but I was sure he’d have talked about at least a few of his flings? I mean, he doesn’t exactly use a lot of discretion.” Jim propped himself on his elbow, staring at her intently. “He’s one of those guys that goes all over the place. He dated more than a few guys and gals from my parties.”

“You seem to know more about him than I ever did. As far as John and I knew, he’s never dated anyone.” Molly frowned when Jim snorted, draining his drink.

He filled his glass, and tipped the bottle in her direction, flashing her a bright white grin before he took a big bite out of a strawberry. “John definitely knew about a couple of the girls. Hm…” Thin, blunted fingers tapped against his chin as Jim considered whether or not to continue. “Well, I don’t know if we should really be discussing this. I mean… If he never told you…” He trailed off, giving her a pointed look as if she should understand.

Only she didn’t. Her thoughts felt far away and disconnected, her arms heavy. The thin, fluted glass in her fingers tripled in weight as she tried to gather her thoughts. “I thought he told us everything. He always seemed so,” she paused, trying to catch the words as they flitted away from her. “Why would he keep that a secret?”

“Well it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Molly shook her head slowly, the world spinning with the small movement. “Nothing about Sherlock is obvious.” She could have sworn that Jim had rolled his eyes, but when he spoke he was smiling, as if she was being a bit silly.

“I don’t think it’s anything to be hurt over. Sherlock’s always been a private guy. Besides, with your crush on him being so obvious, he probably didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” Jim shrugged again, turning his eyes to the sky and pointing heavenward.

She followed his finger and saw a sky lit with stars. How far away from the city had they driven that she could see so many stars in the sky? Usually she’d have been excited, recounting all the constellations her father had taught her. Tonight, however, the stars all seemed dull, a vast expanse of darkness between each twinkling light. The edge to all of her emotions seemed soft and blurred, everything melting together into one uncaring confusion.

The tree line burned with a fringe of stars and far off city lights, and for a moment she remembered his proclamation from early that night.

_It’ll be positively on fire._

She shivered, and felt his hand rub against her arm.

“Oh, I didn’t think it’d be too cold for us out here tonight. Are you all right? Want to use one of the blankets?”

She shook her head and put her drink further away from her, confused.

She’d only had one glass right? She didn’t usually drink, but one glass shouldn’t have bothered her this much. Right? “N-no, I’m fine. I think I want to go home.”

“But Molly, we just started enjoying ourselves. Please, stay just a little longer?” He pouted at her, eyes black in the dark. He leaned towards her, his sweet scent swelling into her nose, making her stomach churn. “Besides, do you really want to go back to that mother of yours so soon? I was supposed to help you get away from all that, remember?”

She shook her head again and finally laid her head down to stare at the sky. Her limbs felt heavy and her thoughts were coming slowly.

“So, Molly.” He curled closer to her, biting into an apple with a crunch. “You seem upset. Are you sure Sherlock and you weren’t… something?”

She cast him a sidelong glance, wading through the weight of his question. “Why are you so convinced we were? He doesn’t invite me on most of his and John’s adventures unless he has to have a distraction. Most of the time he doesn’t even notice me.”

This time she was sure Jim rolled his eyes. She couldn’t gather the energy to care. When Jim spoke she struggled to keep track of what he said. “I don’t think you know Sherlock very well then. He has spoken at length about how he notices you.”

“Hardly. We used to be close but the last few years he’s just… drifted away from me.” She stared up at the stars and traced patterns in the light. “He and John are taking on more serious clients and no one ever sees him when he’s not on a case.” Something about what he’d said didn’t make sense, but she was having a hard time figuring out why.

“Hm. Yes, he has seemed more distant lately. But surely not with you, Molly?” Jim traced her fingers with his own, a light touch barely brushing against her skin.

She suppressed another shiver and pulled her arm away. The night sky blurred in her vision. She blinked slowly, opening her eyes to Jim hovering over her.

“He always speaks of you so fondly when he’s high.” Jim’s nose rubbed against hers, his lips pressing against her skin. She shook her head and pushed against him, her lips numb and tingling. “Like a floodgate’s been opened and he just can’t shut up. You’d think you made the earth go around the sun, with the way he says your name.”

Molly pushed harder, sliding up the blanket. “No, Jim.” Her heart was beating frantically in her chest, her mouth gone dry with panic. He stiffened beside her before he leaned away and caught her eyes with his.

She’d expected anger or even distaste. Instead he looked down at her with a soft gaze, and ran a comforting hand down her side. “You look tired, Molly dear. Are you all right?”

“Why did you say that about Sherlock? He doesn’t do drugs. I’d know.” She shivered again, the night air cold on her clammy skin. She tried to shake off the leaden feeling in her limbs and the exhaustion creeping over her thoughts. “You said he’d never mentioned me before, in John’s apartment.”

“Oh, Molly dear, you can’t tell me you’re that naïve.” Jim let out a loud, barking laugh, his words sharp and clear in the fog of confusion she’d found herself in. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed. He was high the day I asked you out, and he’s been high ever since. And he always talks about you.”

“How do you know that?” She frowned, wondering if maybe she’d fallen asleep at some point in the night and this was just a horrible nightmare.

“I told you, love. Sherlock and I had a fling. I know all there is to know.” Jim was touching her again, running his hands over her stomach and down her arms, ghosting a touch over her cheek. “Well, almost.”

“Why are you asking so many questions then?”

“Well, can’t blame me for being a curious ex, can you?” There was a bitter note to his voice, but Molly was too concentrated on keeping her eyes open and his hands from becoming too intimate. “And all those adventures he takes you on! Why, he never talks about those. I bet you’re the only one who knows a thing about them besides John. But then, John wouldn’t ever find himself here with me.”

What should have been a simple task was quickly becoming insurmountable as her eyes blinked closed a moment too long. She snapped her eyes open again when she felt lips at her cheek.

“What did you do?” The words were slurred, her voice low and unsteady.

“What do you mean, Molly love?” Something about the sugary innocence to his voice was unconvincing, but she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t imagining it.

“I want to go home.” She closed her eyes again, groaning as she turned away from his wandering hands again.

“Such a lightweight. Didn’t think you were _that_ innocent, love. No wonder Sherlock won’t touch. His dirty hands would sully you up.” Jim snickered beside her, but Molly couldn’t find the humor.

She felt paralyzed, panic slipping in and out of her fuzzy mind. She could hear Jim, as if he spoke from a great distance, could feel clingy hands like a warm pressure against numb skin. Waves of nausea and exhaustion washed over her, and she heard her own voice, responding to some question or comment, as if she were listening to someone else.

Something warm wrapped around her, soothing sounds whispered in her ear, her body jostled in the dark.

“You have some questions to answer, Molly. You might know a bit more than you think about our lovely little Sherlock.” The soothing sounds continued for a moment, before stopping abruptly. “All kinds of little activities he doesn’t want spread around. Thieving, assaults, and much more, I hear. Our little vigilante hero.”

Hours later she emerged from the fog covering her thoughts, cold and alone on the blankets, the food around her half gone. She could hear Jim’s voice, muffled and gloating, beside her. His pacing silhouette cast a shadow in her direction, headlights blazing like fire in her eyes, cutting through her head with pain.

She wasn’t sure if she vomited or dry heaved in the dead grass, but the last thought she had before the world went dark again was of fear.

The next time she opened her eyes her head nearly split open from the gray light spilling in through wooden slats in an unfamiliar window. Something soft and warm was wrapped around her shoulders. After her eyes focused and a wave of nausea passed, she recognized the blanket from the picnic. A note sat on the pillow beside her head. The looping, fancy handwriting was as unfamiliar as everything else, but it didn’t take much guesswork to realize this is Jim’s apartment.

_Molly,_

_Make yourself at home, but not too much._

Everything in sight was expensive. She stood to investigate, coming across a cherry desk, the wood polished and smooth and probably worth more than her entire apartment. A fruit bowl sat on the table, full red apples gleaming at her, and she remembered Jim looming over her with an apple in hand, smirking. She shuddered at the thought, turning away and drifting down a narrow hallway.

Eventually she wandered into the bathroom and took a quick moment to check her clothing. No rips, no stretching, no sign of any frightful thing happening.   
She had just determined that she would still have to go to the doctor to get checked and let out a shaky breath that hitched with tears, when she heard the front door click open.

“Molly dear?” Jim’s voice called sing-song from the living room, no doubt having found her nest of grass-covered blankets empty. “I brought flowers and some headache medicine. You seemed pretty out of it last night, so I figured you might be hung over today.”

Her stomach rolled. “Um, I’ll be there in a second. Hold on.”

She washed her hands and stumbled out the door, pain pressing behind her eyes. Jim was waiting for her with a wide grin, innocent as a puppy.

“Oh, here you go love. Just as promised.” He held out two Excedrin and a bottle of cold water in one hand, waving flowers around in the other. “I seem to recall Sherlock claiming your favorite flowers were lilies or something. Hope you like them.”

Before she could say anything, the flowers were shoved into her hands. She frowned. She’d definitely never told Sherlock anything of the sort. She wasn’t particularly fond of flowers. She offered him a tight-lipped smile and set them on a gleaming counter, gulping down the water and headache medicine. She hadn’t realized how dry her mouth had been until she’d drank half the water. She took a deep breath and turned to Jim, steeling herself to confront him.

“Jim, did you put something in my drink last night?” It came out too quiet, too meek, to be the strong, truth-demanding question she’d meant it to be.

He was all too aware of her hesitancy, brushing off the accusation easily with a wave of his hand. “Molly, I’d have hardly needed to do that. I had to cut you off after your fourth glass.”

She looked at him incredulously, struggling to remember if she had drank that much. She could only remember the one refill before she’d purposefully put the drink to the side. She remembered panic, fear, the rotten taste of bile in her throat, and something bitter and sharp against her tongue. She stood silently for too long, and before she could say anything else Jim had already moved on.

“I went ahead and called in to work for you today. Told them you were hardly fit for waitressing old fat men, that you’d spent all night puking.” He held up a couple of bright yellow DVD cases, smiling faces with high-styled hair beaming at her from their covers. “I figured we could watch some Glee and spend a good morning in.”

“You called into work for me?” Her cheeks burned red as she imagined what her boss would say to her. She’d called in only once before, and _that_ had been one of John’s emergencies. What would Miss Arnold say about some guy calling for her? “You really shouldn’t have done that. I need the money.”

She crossed her arms, realizing with horror that she had no extra clothes, and that her own were covered in sweat and dirt. She groaned and looked around for her phone.

“Looking for this? I had to make sure you didn’t accidentally make any drunk calls or anything. You were pretty wild last night.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she felt her face grow hot with embarrassment and irritation. He set the phone on his side table. It was blinking a green light at her, warning her that she had a message.

“It’s really not like me to get drunk. I’ve never done it before.” She narrowed her eyes, studying his expression for any flash of guilt.

He merely shrugged and smiled, holding his arm out for her to sit with him before he crinkled his nose. “Those clothes just really won’t do. Would you like to borrow some pajamas?”

She backed away, glaring at him as he dodged the topic again. “No, really, I’m fine.”

He rolled his eyes and huffed out an irritated breath before he leapt to his feet. In a few quick, graceful steps he was at her side, hand smoothing down her back.

She bit her lip, forcing herself to calm. “Last night wasn’t normal, Jim. I know drunk people, and that’s not what that felt like.”

“Look, love, it’s different seeing drunk people and _being_ drunk. There’s no shame in it. You had a rough day and drank more than you thought. People do it all the time.” He pulled her to him, pressing his lips against her forehead. “Do you really think I’m that kind of monster?”

She looked at him, and the pout pulling at his lips, eyes like melted chocolate as he pleaded with her to believe him, and sighed. He certainly didn’t look like he’d drug someone. And she hadn’t had much experience with drinking… Maybe he really hadn’t done anything. It’s not like she’d tried drugs to know what that felt like. Besides, she didn’t _want_ to believe that the one guy who had shown un-ambiguous interest in her had turned out to be a creep.

With a last determination that she’d go to the doctor—just in case—she shook her head and offered him a tremulous smile. “I guess not. Sorry, I’ve just never been like that before. Don’t know what got into me.”

And just like that he dropped his hands from her back, stepped away from her and bounded back to the couch. “Good then. You’ll find the pajamas in the bedroom on the right. Don’t rifle through the drawers too much. Heaven only knows what kind of things the last girl left in there.”

She gaped at his back for a moment, stunned at the sudden loss of affection in his voice. She wandered back to the room, knocked back by the extravagance. If the rest of the apartment was modest riches, then the modesty ended at this door.

She was certain that the bed set alone could keep her afloat for a few months. The drawer that presumably held pajamas for her to wear was clearly quality. She pulled delicately at polished stone knobs, avoiding looking at the mirror where her disheveled hair and dark circled eyes contrasted piteously with the large room.

She looked for at least ten minutes before she found some dark pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that she was fairly certain was left by one of the girls he’d mentioned. Its bottom was ragged, a hole gaping from one armpit. She shuffled from the room, suddenly shy in the oversized clothes.

When she walked into the room, she was surprised to see a predatory darkness seep into his gaze as he looked at the shirt draped over her small shoulders.

“I haven’t seen that shirt in ages.” His voice was low, his eyes still pointedly staring at the shirt until she cleared her throat. “Can’t believe the girl forgot it. She was a bit airheaded.” He grinned at her. “I like you in it much better.”

She shifted uncomfortably, until he patted the seat beside him, the remote already pointed at the television. Fifteen minutes into a ridiculous plotline featuring a dancing teacher and public humiliation, she felt a hand against her leg, fiddling casually with the thin pajama fabric. She shifted, shooting Jim a look, but he wasn’t paying attention to her.

It wasn’t another five minutes before he bent his head towards hers, placing a brazen and forceful kiss against her neck. She stood with a jolt, panic and the distinct memory of hands roaming over her heavy limbs and a “no” forcefully said to Jim’s insistent mouth.

“I really have to go home. Mary and John are probably worried. I mean, I haven’t checked in with them or anything.” She was speaking too quickly, her breath coming too shallow. “And besides, I’ve got to try to talk some sense into my mom.”

“Am I really that horrific of a kisser? I thought I was rather skilled myself.” He didn’t seem overly bothered as he slithered up from the couch to wrap his arms around her waist and bury his head in her neck. “Wouldn’t dream of running you off, Molly dear.” Her name slid off his tongue like velvet, the same sickening sweet smell rolling off of him in waves.

She pulled away and picked up her clothes and phone. Not surprisingly, she had several missed calls, most of them from Mary, though there were a few from Sherlock and John. “No, really, I have to go. They’re bound to be freaking out now.”

“Let me take you out again this weekend. I’ve got just the restaurant in mind.” He nudged her playfully, a lazy smile splitting his lips. “I’m positive you’ll love it.”

Her insides lurched at the idea of another date. Drugged or not, she didn’t think she could handle another date with him. He was pushy and insistent and a bit terrifying. “No, really, I have to figure all of this stuff out with my mom. I’m on thin ice as it is, I don’t think I can risk another date this weekend. Mom would probably kill me.”  
“Oh, love, I insist.” His grip tightened on her arm. His smile turned to stone, eyes no longer warm as he stared pointedly into hers. “I’ve got a special guest just dying to meet you, Molly dear. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

She hissed as the fingers squeezing her arm turned painful, frozen in her spot. With a quick glance from the hand on her arm and the one holding her waist, she tried to look reassuring. “I’m sure I can work something out. I can let you know.” When he didn’t look assured, she gave him a wobbly smile. “Really, I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“Good. See you Sunday, then.” His eyes drifted over her one more time, taking in the too large shirt hungrily. “Go ahead and keep the pajamas today. You can give them back to me on our date.”

And then, in a final show of affection, he kissed the top of her head and ran a hand over her cheek. “See you then, Molly dear. Need a taxi home?”

“N-no. I’ll just… walk.”

“You’re going to walk home?” His laugh was sharp and short. “You’re definitely a strange one, Molly mouse.”

With that, she rushed out of the apartment and hurried down three flights of stairs before she burst out of the exit into a bright and busy street.

She wasn’t sure how long she was walking before she caught dark curls and blue eyes over the faces in the crowd, but she was certain it hadn’t been long. He appeared to be searching for her, because he was at her side before she could try to head for him, eyes glaring down at her and taking in all her disheveled details.

“I’ll get you a taxi. We’ll talk on the way to the apartment.” His voice was tight, as if the act of talking to her was strangling him.

“Whose apartment?” She nearly jumped at the way he turned to her, his brow furrowed and eyes squinting down at her.

“Well, mine of course. Your mom is still on the warpath. She’s been raving since you left about how you picked some boy over her.” He glanced at her again, and she noticed for the first time that his pupils were pinpoints in shocking blue irises.

“Sherlock, are you ok?” She reached out to touch his arm and felt him stiffen under her fingers, his steps faltering briefly before he hurried forward, ignoring her question.

By the time he waved down a taxi she had noticed other things. Like the way he moved slowly, his feet tripping over themselves on occasion. Or the way he mumbled to himself as he waited for the taxi to stop, and then leaned heavily on the door when it finally lurched to a halt in front of them. He practically fell through the door and onto the seat, head resting heavily against the cheap faux leather.

He didn’t give an address so she spoke up, wondering if he’d notice that she gave her own apartment complex and not his. If he did, he decided to say nothing.

They sat in silence for a full minute before Sherlock let loose a flood of deductions. No doubt he’d been holding them in from the moment he saw her.

“Shirt much too large in the chest and hip area. Clearly belonging to another woman, though by the creases and wrinkles in the fabric, as well as the smell of old wood and dust, it’s not been worn in some time. Rips and worn patches indicate that it was a favorite of its previous owner.” He paused, lips twitching, though they settled into more of a sneer than a smile. “Strange that a woman would leave behind her favorite shirt at an ex-boyfriends house.”

“Sherlock—” He interrupted her almost immediately, continuing his barrage of useless information.

“Men’s pajama bottoms, recently laundered, too large in the calf area but a bit snug in the hips where they were not tailored to accommodate womanly hip bones. Expensive, but not treasured, and not often worn. Given away easily. You’ve been wearing them for, what, only an hour or so? Not nearly wrinkled enough to have been worn overnight. What happened to your clothes? Didn’t leave them on his floor did you?”

She knew she wasn’t imagining the bitter jealousy ringing through the observations, or the strangely personal way he was tearing through her. Her mouth only fell open as she curled in on herself, watching him with horror as he continued on, the sneer ever present on his face. He only occasionally glanced at her, blue eyes too bright in the dimly lit taxi.

“Of course not. You’re much too proper for that. Can’t say the same for your hair, however, it’s properly mussed. Twigs and grass, Molly? Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to romp in public, but who knows where you disappeared to last night. And smeared lipstick, leftover from last night. How lovely.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” She snapped at him, but he had already stopped, eyes rounded on her and wide.

“Did you actually kiss him, Molly?” For a moment her anger waned. He had sounded shockingly broken at the idea, and it had taken reminding herself of everything else he’d said to make her snap back to her anger.

“Well, what do you care? You’ve practically accused me of having my way with him in the park!” He winced under the biting fury in her voice. “Honestly, for someone who only ever seems to refer to me as _John’s sister_ , you certainly seem intent to make a jealous ass out of yourself.”

He didn’t answer her for a long time, his head resting against the seat and his arms and legs spread to take up most of the back, eyes closed. It wasn’t until the taxi stopped, and she moved to leave, that he spoke up.

“I thought you were gone. No one could get ahold of you, no one knew where you were. The last I’d talked to you, you were out with Moriarty and nowhere. You were scared, I know you were. I heard it. That’s how he gets them all.” He let out a long, slow breath and she heard the taxi driver mumbling in the front seat, but Sherlock’s face was so worn that she listened to him anyway. “So I was a bit not good, and so my mind’s all jumbled. I am genuinely sorry. I’ll be better in a few hours. See you then?”

She bit her lip, reaching to twirl her bracelet between her fingers and finding it gone. With a frown and a sigh, she tugged him out of the taxi. “Unfortunately, I don’t know if I have a few hours to wait on you.”

She propped him up on the side of the taxi, leaning down into the taxi to search the floor board and between the seats. The bracelet is barely more than knotted thread, but she spends ten minutes looking for it in the sticky, smelly backseat. She wondered if it had somehow ended up in Jim’s apartment, or if it had fallen off sometime in the field. She frowned again as the taxi driver gave a loud, exasperated groan, waving her away. She dragged Sherlock off of the taxi, and it sped away without waiting for them to step onto the curb.

When she and Sherlock reached her apartment, she was not surprised to find the door locked and a note stuck in the knob. The handwriting was wobbly and big and the note was short.

_MOLLY,_

_YOU AIN’T ALLOWED BACK._

It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t take much to figure out who had written it.

“Told you she said you couldn’t come back.” He mumbled it through barely moving lips, as if the effort of talking was just too much.

“She says that all the time, Sherlock. Just give her a few days.” But Molly wasn’t sure, remembering the way Momma had screamed, and the desperate fear around the other woman’s eyes, that this time Momma didn’t mean it.

She also wasn’t sure, looking at Sherlock swaying on his feet, his hand braced against the wall, if Sherlock was going to be much help this time.


End file.
